


Blow Out The Candles

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Reality, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Blood, Bondage, Daddy Kink, Drama & Romance, Edgeplay, Impact Play, M/M, Marijuana, Mildly Dubious Consent, Partner Swapping, Smoking, Smut, Spanking, Swearing, Vibrators, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-02-07 17:18:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12845820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: When the Fourth of July has England more depressed than usual, America wishes his lover could be happy. The wish comes true, but not in the way America intended. The England he wakes up with is not the one he's used to... but that might turn out to be a good thing.Meanwhile, England finds himself in the same situation—this America is very, very different from the one he knows. At first, he hates being in this strange reality... but then he starts to wonder if perhaps this is where he should have been living all along.But nothing can last forever. And if these Englands can't get back to their rightful worlds, America's birthday wish might just become a death wish.[Dysfunctional UKUS.]





	1. Wishful Thinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please disregard any wonky time zone stuff in this fic, your humble author is an eejit.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)

UNITED KINGDOM 

England hates birthdays.

Well, not birthdays as a concept. He has nothing against celebrating life, even if each year passed is one step closer to an eventual death. (For a nation, it isn’t an intimate concern; some consider themselves immortal, but so did Prussia, and look what happened to him.) Indeed, England celebrates his own birthday each year with enough enthusiasm, in his opinion anyway. A parade through London, marching bands, a flaunting of the current royal brood and their associated baubles. The clopping horses, the bright red coats. (England can never look at the old uniforms without feeling an alarmingly volatile mix of pride and grief. So many battles, so many boys, so many buttons . . .) He supposes it’s natural for a country to want to celebrate the anniversary of its establishment. Truth be told, he has no problem with it at all. He doesn’t hate his own birthday, nor does he hate the birthdays of other nations.

Except one.

_Bloody Fourth of July._

Every year since 1776, England has gotten absolutely snockered on this day. It’s become the expectation for the other nations, to the point where the rowdier ones (typically Prussia and Spain) come to goad England into drinking even more. France always supervises, annually preventing England from doing anything too humiliating and/or life-threatening. He claims last year there was karaoke (mostly David Bowie and, inexplicably, Natasha Bedingfield) for two hours straight, but England has no recollection of it. Honestly, he couldn’t care less; the entire point of the drinking is so he forgets, and if the Fourth becomes a hazy cloud of liquor, he’s relieved. Prussia and Spain can chortle about England’s low tolerance to their hearts’ content. If he can’t remember losing, he wins. Fuck them all.

But not this year. This year, he has decided to try turning a new leaf. (Keyword: _try_.) He and America have been dating (a word neither of them have yet used aloud) for nearly five months now, and England knows he can’t keep up his drunken cycle any longer. For one thing, it’s immature, running from his feelings (not to mention the chaos that ensues after he reaches the Loud Drunk stage). For another, it’s disrespectful. How would England feel if his lover preferred to get wasted over celebrating his birthday? Insulted. Very insulted. So, no binge drinking this year, and—God willing—no more in the years to come. A new leaf. _I can do it._ It’s been a while since he had a goal to achieve, and the optimism is so refreshing that he actually spends most of the morning in a good mood.

Unfortunately, all mornings—and good moods—must come to an end.

He’s mopping the kitchen floor when the doorbell rings. _Oh, piss off, whoever you are._ He glances down at himself, wondering how much of his soiled clothing should be removed. The doorbell rings again, as insistent as a doorbell can be. England decides if they’re too impatient to wait for him to be presentable, they have no right to complain about his slovenly appearance. Filing the argument where he can easily find it, he goes and answers the door.

Prussia, Spain, and France stand on his front step, all three of them trying to catch the eye of every attractive passerby. The overcast sky has Spain a bit glum, but there’s something else dragging the trio down. As mainlanders, they all have a cramped vibe; Prussia and Spain wouldn’t be caught dead crossing the Channel on any other day of the year. France visits more frequently, so it doesn’t bother him as much, but he has explained to England that being on a landmass so small makes continental nations feel claustrophobic. (England can’t remember the last time Russia set foot on his Isles.) The peculiar feeling works both ways; England doesn’t like being away from the coast for extended periods. He would never, ever, _ever_ admit it—it sounds far too childish, like a human child in a shopping mall—but he worries he’ll get lost if he has no ocean to navigate by.

England clears his throat pointedly. His mood is not improved by opening the door and having to wait for the privilege of his visitors’ attention.

They all look at him with varied levels of amusement. Prussia jabs the doorbell button again, just for the sake of annoyance, and says, “Ah, the Igmeister. I can’t believe you’re sober. Starting late this year?”

England wants to cross his arms over his chest, but his apron is too messy, and the burn on his arm wouldn’t enjoy it. “I’m not starting at all this year, and I would appreciate if you addressed me by my proper name, considering where we are right now.”

Prussia and Spain exchange impressed and amused looks. “Oh, sure, sure. I’ll get right on that,” the ex-nation says. “Just give me a second to prepare myself.” He takes a theatrically huge breath, then chants, “ _All hail the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland!_ Hip hip!”

“Hooray!” Spain responds gleefully, always happy for entertainment.

England’s left eye twitches. France gives him an apologetic look.

Prussia’s still going, a hand over his heart. “ _All hail the smallest nation with the longest name!_ Hip hip!”

England grabs France by the fashionable scarf, yanks him inside, and slams the door shut. He fumes in silence, listening to a muffled _hooray!_ from Prussia and Spain before they both dissolve into laughter.

France smooths his scarf. “ _Je suis désolé, mon ami_.”

“None of that.” England scowls. “Speak English.”

France gives a light grimace of his own. “Sorry.” He tilts his head, a wavy golden lock falling just so over a blue eye. “I never ask you to speak French, you know.”

England arches an eyebrow, silent. Normally, he wouldn’t be opposed to playing this age-old game with France. The walking of an invisible line, a tightrope taut with sexual tension and the goddamn _history_ that, though they both remember it, they can never quite stop repeating. But right now, he’s too bothered by a different history (though he isn’t forgetting France’s involvement in the bloody Revolution).

“Just an observation.” France shrugs. “Anyway.” He tucks the fallen strand of hair behind his ear and regards England. “Are you . . . baking?”

England looks down at himself again. He wears an apron that looks polka-dotted from afar, but up close you can see it’s actually tiny Union Jacks. The apron, his trousers, and his sleeves (despite being rolled up) are all spattered with eggs, smeared with butter, speckled with grains of sugar. Not to mention, of course, the dusting of flour on his sandy hair from a little incident involving gravity and a poorly-sealed bag.

He lifts his gaze to France again. “If it wasn’t apparent. Yes. I am baking.”

France’s eyebrows spike upward. “Cottage pie?”

“No.” Self-consciousness prickles inside him; he glares to cover it up. “If you _must_ know, I’m baking a cake.”

The realization on France’s face turns to pity, and England longs for a bottle of whiskey or a hug from a Frenchman. Or both. But he’ll feel pathetic seeking out either one, so he simply snaps, “America will be here soon, and I would appreciate having his birthday cake ready before he arrives. I’m afraid I won’t be joining you and your intelligent friends for drinks today. Thanks but no thanks. Is that all?”

France opens his mouth, considers his words, then nods in defeat. “Yes, that is all.” He opens the door, but pauses, looking at the floor. Then he looks at England, reluctance clear. He toys with his question for a good while before finally asking, “Could I . . . check your recipe? I’ve always been . . . curious about English baking.”

England fixes a cool stare on the other nation. “If you’re asking me if I want help, ask me.”

France’s frown is delicate, as always. Elegant bastard. “But then you will say no.”

“Oh, good, you know already. Then we’re done.” England pushes France out onto the front step. “Do me a favor and don’t come back ’til this time next year.”

At the bottom of the steps, Prussia says loudly, “That’s the plan!”

France’s brow is furrowed in a way that pricks England’s conscience, bleeding guilt into his heart. It doesn’t matter. Remorse or no remorse, he won’t apologize. Neither of them will ever truly apologize to each other. They have lost track of who owes who for the lost lives, the wars and alliances, the hurt and the healing. It becomes irrelevant after the sixth century or so. All that matters now is that, as if connected by a bungee cord, one of them always comes rebounding back to the other.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” France advises.

England scoffs. “And the same to you.”

As he closes the door, he hears Prussia saying, “That implies there’s something or someone out there he wouldn’t do,” and Spain laughing. France doesn’t laugh, not that England can hear, anyway. _Curious._

Unimportant. He turns around. Even from here, the kitchen doorway allows the view of part of the counter, and it’s quite the sight. England isn’t sure he’ll recognize this particular room ever again. He might have to move when this is all over. _Christ, that would be embarrassing._

England probably would have been nicer to France and his companions, if they had come early in the morning. His mood has worsened with each baking attempt. All day long, England has been making mess after mess in the kitchen. Every would-be cake has been a failure, each more spectacular than the last. The first cake had been undercooked. Then, when he put it back in for what seemed like only five seconds, it nearly set his oven on fire. The next one he’d watched like a hawk, even though it was incredibly boring. It browned just right, and he took it out to cool—only to burn his wrist on the edge of the admittedly too-small oven. Needless to say, the cake did not survive England’s instinctive flail away from agony. It _might_ have been salvageable after its fall— _ten-second rule_ , as America often invokes—if not for the baking debris that litter the floor. England hadn’t realized how much mess he’d actually made until he nearly broke his neck slipping on a bit of butter. The second cake, dripping batter and whatever else was on the floor, joined the first in the bin. England had shoved his throbbing arm under the sink and run cold water over it, cursing under his breath.

“It’s just chemistry,” he mutters now, eyeing the ingredients he’s laid out on the counter. “Sugar, milk, butter, eggs. Vanilla. Baking powder. It’s just a bloody science project.” He regards the nightmare of the kitchen. The floor is mostly clean now, but the counter is a disaster area, and what is that on the wall? He pictures France baking, every movement precise and graceful, never even needing to measure anything or consult a recipe. The frog bakes like he does everything, with _finesse_. England loves watching it. But right now he hates it with every fiber of his being.

Truth be told, he had considered just asking France to bake the cake for him. But _that_ would be admitting defeat without even trying, and England isn’t exactly the type of person to admit defeat. So he tried. He’s been trying all damn day, and it isn’t good enough. He has enough ingredients for another go at cake, but he can’t bring himself to start again. He eases himself down to the floor, back leaning against one of the few clean cabinets he has left. “Well. A jolly good waste of time, that was.” Essentially, all he’s done is move ingredients he bought from their containers to the compost. How France would laugh . . . America would probably laugh, too. The thought makes anger—self-loathing, if he’s honest—churn in England’s guts. _I built up the world’s largest empire, and yet I can’t make a white cake._

He breathes in.

He sighs.

And he gets up.

By the time he’s done cleaning up the mess (and gotten himself even messier in the process), it’s nearly noon. America will be arriving within minutes. England is no longer in the good spirits he was at the beginning of the day, determined to celebrate the Fourth of July like a respectable adult, and he despises it. Just glimpsing the burn on his arm makes him want to strangle someone. France, preferably, even though it isn’t his fault. _It’s always my fault. God, why can’t I do anything right anymore?_  After the cake was done, he’d planned on cooking a fancy dinner, something to impress America, maybe even remind him of home. Unfortunately, he is not in the mood. He knows it won’t turn out right, so there’s no point in even trying. He’s tempted to just run out to a chip shop for take-away, but the idea of that just makes him feel even worse. So he’s pulling out a rather overdone steak pie just as America walks through the door.

“Heya, Iggy! Your birthday boy is here!” America waltzes over on a cloud of fermented perfume, with the tell-tale reddish tinge to his cheeks. He starts to lean in for a kiss, but England’s turning away to put the pie on the cooling rack, so he follows after him and presses their hips together, pinning England to the counter. Lips brush England’s ear. “Didja miss me?”

England sighs. This birthday dinner was ruined before it even began. _Hardly surprising._ “Are you drunk?”

America looks offended. “I only had three beers, England. You know I’m a lot better at holding my liquor than you are.”

“Thanks for rubbing it in, yet again.” England almost winces at how bitter he sounds. _Why does anyone even bother talking to me?_ He plates two steaming slices of pie and offers them to America. Christ, he just wants this day to be over. “Make yourself useful. Put these on the table, would you?”

_So much for turning a new leaf. More like burning the whole bloody tree down in a forest fire._

 

 

UNITED STATES 

America loves birthdays.

Every part of them. The presents, the excuse to be the center of attention, the celebrations—what’s more exciting than Fourth of July fireworks? He can’t wait until tonight, when he’ll head back across the Atlantic to watch the sky light up with his people’s love for him. The booming reminds him of canons, which reminds him of how powerful he is. God, he loves his birthday. But his favorite part is probably the food. Who doesn’t love Fourth food? All the burgers and hot dogs you can fit on the barbecue! Bring on the condiments! _Ketchup, mustard, relish, baby!_

But that will have to wait for tonight, because right now he’s faced with a lunch that is definitely not typical Fourth of July fare. (It’s actually something he ate a lot of under England’s rule, though he’d rather not think about that; it’ll put a bad taste in his mouth.) He looks down at the plates for a solid ten seconds before he takes them to the table. He’s not fussy about what he eats, but he expected something a bit more . . . extravagant for his birthday. _At least a hamburger and fries from McDonald’s wouldn’t be overdone._ But everybody says home-cooked meals are best, and even if they’re not, it’s probably healthier than any alternative America would be having elsewhere. So he smiles at England as the older nation comes over with their drinks, wine and soda. “Made with love, huh?”

For some reason, England looks pissy. He sets down the glasses and takes his seat across from America. It reminds America of their first date. England was pretty grumpy on that occasion, too; it’s easier to note the times the Brit isn’t in a bad mood. It’s been interesting to watch England go from the ruler of an empire to a simple nation like any other—well, he’ll never be _exactly_ like the other nations, what with his region/country/collection-of-countries-and-also-commonwealth status, but as close as he can get to normalcy. England has never mentioned it, but America knows he misses his mansion. England didn’t _have_ to move out of his stately home when his empire fell, but he did. His country was a changing place, and so the man himself reflected that. It was a time of humbling for England, and America isn’t certain the older nation has ever fully come to terms with being stripped down once again to Britain. Or England. Or the UK. Or whatever the heck he’s technically called.

America watches England pick at the unsightly steak pie in silence for a few minutes before the lack of conversation drives him crazy. “You shoulda come to the parades today. Canada came, we had an awesome time together. It woulda been nice if you and France coulda been there.”

France used to be a regular guest for the Fourth, but these days he’s usually absent. America doesn’t really know why; when asked, France always apologizes and claims to be _busy with matters of the past_. America has no idea what that means, but the tone France uses warns him not to ask. It’s clearly something personal, and America doesn’t want to go around opening old wounds.

He’s never invited England to come. He knows what the answer will be.

England’s gaze cuts toward him, an emerald blade. “Why would you want me _and_ France to be there? We’d just be quarreling the whole time.”

America’s eyes widen. He hadn’t realized England is so aware of the fact that, yeah, he and France never shut up in each other’s presence. (At least not when America is around . . .) “Well, you and France were sort of . . . I mean, you raised me, and France was around a lot, too. It would be sort of like a family reunion.”

England stares at him for a moment, just long enough for America to see something break painfully inside those green eyes, before he looks away to take a long, long sip of wine. America wonders how he isn’t drowning. When England sets the glass down, his voice is a little thick but still intense. “We are not humans, America. We do not have families. If we were family, our relationship would be considered illegal. And disgusting.”

America holds up his hands. “I _know_ that.” There’s nothing as unromantic as thinking about the human version of their relationship: a father and son with the wrong kind of love between them. _Incest._ The word makes America’s skin crawl, a taboo strengthened by the morals of his people. “I’m just saying, it would be _like_ a family. We were pretty much the closest a group of nations can get to a family. I mean, a nucular family.”

“ _Nuclear_. I hate hearing Americans say that incorrectly.” England has a long list of words like that. “And a nuclear family is a mother, father, and children. Who, exactly, are you considering the mother in this situation?”

America considers this. He never called anyone _mom_ or _mother_ as a child; England was Daddy or Dad or Father, and France was just France (Papa to Canada). France was definitely the Mother Goose of the pair, kissing better boo-boos and packing picnic lunches with sandwiches cut into hearts. Both England and France have their own influences of femininity—France with his long hair and flowing clothes, England with his . . . well, his physique is . . . oh, screw it, he has delicious hips and thighs and his ass might be America’s favorite part of him (though if asked he has trained himself to automatically say _eyes_ ). But, obviously, there is no _mother_ or _father_ for countries. No pregnancy, no DNA. New countries are born through colonization, and England just happened to colonize America. As did France, to a lesser extent. And Spain, for that matter, though he never really had much input on the parenting front. (England wouldn’t let the plundering bastard anywhere near vulnerable Little America.) Spain made up for his distance eventually, joining France at America’s side when he fought for his independence. How exciting that was, to finally be recognized as an adult. If only England could have been on his side . . .

“I don’t know,” America admits. “Neither. Sorry, forget I said anything.” He takes a bite of pie—edible, but pretty poor—and changes the subject. “So, my day’s been pretty great, how about yours?”

England scowls down at his plate. “. . . Fine.”

Selfishly, America thinks, _Really? You have to do this on my birthday, of all days?_ But he knows what this is from. England would probably lie up one side and down the other about the cause of his bad mood, but America knows it’s because today is the anniversary of his independence. He might be dim sometimes, but he’s not _stupid._ He knows England has a lot of self-worth issues—a lot of issues, period. And he doesn’t mind helping him through them. That’s what love is about, right?

America knows a sure-fire way to cheer him up; once they’ve put the dishes in the sink, he wraps his arms around the England’s waist and holds him closer, lips on the shorter man’s forehead.

England sighs and turns his face away. “I’m really not in the mood. I just want to lie down.”

America carresses the small of his back. “Yeah? Well, you could lie down, and I could make you feel really good . . .” He slides his hand lower, cupping the pert swell of England’s ass. He’s so skinny, you’d think his ass would be bony, but it’s got just the right amount of cushion. “First time for everything, huh?”

England tilts his head back wearily, irritation plain on his face. “How many times have we been over this. I _don’t_ want to bottom.”

America pouts. “Not even for my birthday? Pretty _pleeeeease_? With chocolate and sprinkles and the biggest cherry you can find on top?” He gives one of England’s cheeks a gentle squeeze. “I promise I’ll be really slow and careful, you’ll be in _heaven_ , Iggy—”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” England pries America’s hands off of him and strides quickly away, sweeping the crumbs off the table and onto the floor with one angry swipe of his arm. “I am not bottoming. That’s final. Get it through your stupid—” He stops himself, leaning his weight on his hands on the tabletop. His sigh comes softly, head hanging in defeat.

America is torn between feeling heartbreaking sympathy for his lover and being incredibly turned on by the pose he’s in, the line of his back leading perfectly down to his ass. America shakes the lust out of his mind and steps over, placing a light hand between England’s shoulder blades. “It’s okay, England. We don’t have to do anything. We can just watch TV or something until my flight.” He brightens a little. “Hey, you could come back with me and we could watch the fireworks together! I know the best places, we wouldn’t have to be around any people. It’d be just you and me. How about it?”

England tenses beneath America’s touch. After a few moments of strained silence, he gives his response in a barely audible voice. “No. I don’t want to go to the fireworks. I want to make a cake.”

America blinks, mishearing, and a grin spreads across his face. “A cake? You made me a birthday cake? Thank you!”

England straightens up, looking at him with dark, dead eyes. He steps over to one of the cupboards and yanks it open. His words are ragged, snarled. “No, I didn’t make you a birthday cake, because I’m a bloody waste of space. Happy birthday.” He slaps the package of birthday candles down on the counter. “Make your fucking wish.” His voice breaks at the last syllable, dropping into a miserable whisper. America glimpses tears in those beautiful green eyes before the older nation storms to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

America stands motionless for a moment, uncertain as to what he should do, how he should react to this. His first response, as is typical for him, is emotional: sadness, because his lover is sad; frustration, because he doesn’t know how to make him feel better; and something bitter that he slowly recognizes as betrayal, because England has ruined his two-hundred-forty-first birthday.

America thinks about it for a moment, then takes out his cell phone and texts Canada. He can never remember how the time zones work, but it’s not like Canada will be asleep right now. **_Hey sorry but i wont be at the fireworks staying with ig._**

The reply comes after three minutes of standing in England’s now-silent house. **_No worries. Everything okay?_**

America glances toward the bedroom door, still closed. **_Yeah i think so just bad memories i guess._**

No pause now. **_You can’t blame him for that. It was a hard time for all of us._**

Of course Canada would say that, being the empathic one of the family, if you could call it a family. And he was on England’s side during the revolution, America can’t forget that (though he does, more often than he realizes).  ** _Yeah well anyway happy 4 xo._ **

America knows Canada is smiling. **_Oh thanks. Happy Birthday, Am. XO._**

Well, now he’s stuck in the British Isles. After much thought, he decides to take the coward’s way out and wait for England to come out of his bedroom of his own volition; he’s worried that knocking or trying to talk to him through the door will just make things worse. _Maybe_ , he thinks, _the wine will knock him out ’til tomorrow._ It’s only noon now, but stranger things have happened. America feels a small, likely insignificant part of his heart break as he imagines his people enjoying the fireworks—fireworks for _his_ freedom, of all things—without him. One of the many tiny heartbreaks England has given him since they started dating (having sex?). _Since we met each other in the first place, really._ America won’t leave, though. He knows there’s something here, a happiness that could be called true love. To him, it’s like unearthing a dinosaur fossil. It’s just a matter of gingerly digging away the dirt and brushing off the dust. If you go too fast, you might destroy it. If you don’t look, you’ll never find it. But once you’ve got it, it’s so amazing everyone will ask how you managed it. And you’ll shrug and say, _It’s true love._

That’s what America wants. He wants love like a dinosaur.

He gives a sigh of acknowledgement for his botched day—at least half of it was good, even if the aftertaste is bad—and takes out a candle. It’s pink, with white stripes swirling down it, like a barbershop pole. The lighter takes two flicks to light. The flame warms the candle; a perfect droplet of wax makes its slow way downward, toward America’s fingers.

He considers his previous birthday wishes, over the years. He can barely remember them all; mostly just political stuff that was only relevant at the time. An end to that war, a peaceful resolution to this dispute. He knows what humans wish for: puppies, bikes, unicorns, monster trucks. Maybe he’s never been very imaginative, but his wishes have always been what he wants most, and what he wants most is always attainable on some level. Now, perhaps because of that, he has everything he wants. Except . . .

America leans closer to the quivering flame of the candle and whispers, “I wish my boyfriend could be happy for a day.” He imagines it, and he likes it better every second. Who says a wish has to be only one sentence? It’s his birthday. He can wish all he wants. “I wish he could go a whole day without being depressed or stressed out or grumpy. And I wish he could make me a cake, like he wanted to.” Then he realizes what he’s asking for, and shakes his head a little at himself. “Yeah. I guess I wish England could be a whole different person.”

America looks into the tiny teardrop of fire, but it hurts his eyes, so he blows it out and drops it in the garbage bin. He watches the television on mute for an hour, then finally risks going into the bedroom. England is curled up entirely under the covers, hidden and motionless. America had a little nap on the plane, and he’s still a little tired, so he decides to join his lover. (He knows England doesn’t like sleeping by himself.) He tugs off his belt and sets his glasses on the bedside table, slips under the covers as carefully as he can. Thankfully, England doesn’t stir, not even when America lays a tentative arm around his waist.

In the shadowy bedroom, America stares up at the ceiling. This is the first Fourth of July they’ve had as _an item_ , and now America wonders if he should have spent the whole day with his lover, not just half. Canada knew it would be hard for England without even having to think about it; why didn’t America think about it? Then he has a terrible thought. _What if every Fourth is like this for England? Or worse?_ Is that what France is always busy with? Dealing with England? _Problems of the past . . ._ It has to be. America’s heart aches with regret. He’s spent every single Independence Day at home. Couldn’t he have skipped it this one time, come to the UK the day before, and woke up on the Fourth of July with England in his arms? Couldn’t he have spent the entire day with the man he loves? The man who went to bed hating himself because he couldn’t bake a simple birthday cake?

America makes up his mind. _Tomorrow, I’ll spend the whole day with Iggy. I’ll show him how much I love him. We’ll have the best day ever._ The future sorted, America closes his eyes and drifts off into the easy sleep of an optimist.


	2. Eventide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really goes without saying, but just for my own peace of mind - talk to your partner(s) BEFORE you bring anything new to the bedroom, please. Especially stuff that involves inflicting pain. Cool? Cool. XO

UNITED STATES 

America dreams of England.

The dream is one of longing, tinged with desire and made vivid by memory. America stands at the top of a golden staircase, a cape of stars and stripes flowing from his broad shoulders. An aged throne sits behind him, its red velvet cushioning torn and its wood hatched with scars. Before him, kneeling on the floor, with his once-beautiful red cloak in tatters around him, is the British Empire.

The nation formerly known as the British Empire.

England has his head bowed, face hidden, baring himself to America’s judgement. America has lived this; though England did not kneel in the 1940s, he did outright beg for American aid. _Please. I’ve nowhere else to turn._ He’d hung his head then, unable to meet America’s gaze even when he agreed to help. _Of course I’ll help you, England,_ he’d said. _So long as you pay me back._ No charity. No allowance. He wasn’t a child anymore. In fact, he had more power than England, and would only grow stronger as time went on. That war was the straw that broke the empire’s back. America clearly remembers England’s claim when he declared independence: _Just you bloody wait. You’ll come crawling back sooner or later. Mark my words._ If only he’d known that two centuries later he’d be reduced to begging his former colony for money. How sweet that tasted at the time. How conflicted America feels about that taste now.

In the dream, America leans down to grasp England’s chin, gently lifting his head so he can look into humiliated emerald eyes. _Like father, like son,_ he whispers. England was once the most powerful empire in the world; now America has taken his place, but better. No empire. Just one nation. ( _Under God, indivisible, etc._ ) Defiance flares in England’s gaze, but he says only, _Semper eadem._ America has heard it before, when he was a child. He remembers the meaning.

_Always the same._

Too soon, the dream ends. America blinks his eyes open, disoriented. England’s bedroom. Right. He paws his glasses from the nightstand, slides them on, and looks at the old-fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand. Quarter to five. Not a bad nap, though he’s not sure it helped with his jet lag. He gently touches the lump in the blankets beside him and is surprised to have it deflate, empty. England woke up before him. _Uh oh._ America gets up quickly, praying that he won’t come out to find the older nation in a state of drunken hysteria.

When America opens the bedroom door, he is greeted by such heavenly smells he almost goes weak at the knees. Worries briefly vanquished by the haze of food aromas, America walks to the kitchen with a growling stomach and a drooling mouth, eager to find and devour the source of the scent. His view from the kitchen doorway, however, has him stopping in his tracks.

The table has been set with a feast that looks straight out of a movie. A salad of green peppers, cucumbers, and something red and white that might be radish. A pork roast, the main element of the delicious odor. A bowl of gravy from said pork roast. Baked potatoes, corn, peas. A little basket of rolls. It all has a warm, cozy feel. It looks so good America doesn’t want to eat it. (Except he really, really wants to eat it. All of it.)

But even more startling than this is the man currently pouring water into the coastered glasses. By all rights, he should be England—and he looks like England, but different. He has the same messy haircut, but strawberry rather than sandy blond hair. He has pale skin, but covered in a generous dusting of freckles. His face is the most jarring: chubby cheeks, blue eyes, and a smile as sweet as sugar.

“Oh, hello, love,” he says cheerfully. His voice is similar, but definitely more singsong, and if America isn’t mistaken, his accent is a little different too, not quite as posh. “How did you sleep?”

“Uh . . .” America edges closer, drawn by the welcoming vibes and mouth-watering food. “Pretty good. I mean, pretty well.” England has always been a stickler for proper grammar (except when he’s drunk). “What’re you doing?”

This peculiar England giggles, tickled by the question. “Making dinner, of course! I hope you’re hungry, love, I made extra today because it’s your birthday!”

America can’t help but smile, even though this is seriously weird. England has never, ever acted this . . . kindly before. He has done kind things, especially for America and Canada. It isn’t that he’s without compassion, he’s just frugal with it, that’s all. “Why do you, uh, look like that? Why are you like this?”

The other nation goes still, gazing at America with curious, puzzled eyes. He clearly has no answer to the question. In fact, America isn’t even sure if he realizes he’s changed. _Am I dreaming? Is that what this is?_ He pinches his wrist, but there’s just a little sting, nothing more.

An answer to the mystery pops into his mind, and he offers it immediately. “Oh, wait, did you have another magick incident?” England’s dabbling in magick doesn’t typically end in disaster, but there have been a few close calls over the years. Once, he nearly burned down his house (he had the mansion back then, so it would’ve been quite tragic) and another time he made every rose in the garden turn blue. This is a different caliber than those—England has issues with self-esteem, but would he really go this far, change himself this much? Or was it just a mistake? Which would be worse?

England blinks, then his face brightens with another cute smile—complete with tiny dimples—and he says, “Oh, yes, it was just a silly spell gone wrong. I was trying to . . . well, it doesn’t matter now. Nothing important. Let’s just say it didn’t go according to plan. Magick is tricky!”

America doesn’t reply; he can’t stop staring. England is wearing an outfit America has never seen before: a purple sweater vest, pink dress shirt, brown trousers, and a bright heckin’ blue bow tie. His clothes don’t hide the fact that his belly has a muffin top, and his pants are a lot tighter around his thighs than they are his calves. _Why would he want to be chubby? What spell would do that?_ He doesn’t claim to understand magick, or England’s coping mechanisms, for that matter. And hey, if this is what England wants, he’s not going to complain. It’s seriously adorable, and getting cuter by the second.

England notices America’s attention, and his toes point inward, hands curling together shyly on his chest. “Do you like how I look?”

America has never been so taken aback. It feels a bit like hearing England genuinely raise his voice—not something that happens often, but when it does, watch out. It’s just so out of the ordinary. When has England ever asked someone else for validation? And asking America, of all nations! But perhaps this is a symptom of dating. _What if he was trying to change himself for me? So I would love him more?_ The thought is at once touching, flattering, and heartbreaking. He remembers his vow to make tomorrow the best day ever for England, and his resolve goes harder than concrete.

“Of course I like how you look,” America replies with a kind smile. “I’d love any body you were in. I love you.”

England ducks his chin a little, lifting freckled fingers cover his mouth, but an overjoyed grin peeks out the sides. “Thank you. I love you, too.” (Another shock; normally getting the phrase returned is like pulling teeth.) “I’m glad you like it. I think I might stay this way for a while.”

America steps over and gently touches a chipmunk cheek. _God, those freckles are cute._ “So it’s not permanent?”

England shakes his head, then smiles. “Not unless we want it to be.”

America smiles right back. “Maybe we do. I’m loving it so far.” He leans down a bit to kiss England’s forehead. He smells like vanilla. “Not to be a pig, but that feast you made looks amazing. Can we eat?”

England had been swooning at the touch of his lover’s lips, but now he perks up. “Oh, of course! Sit, sit!”

So America sits at the table while England bustles around, accidentally bumping chairs with hips that America is delighted to notice are even wider than before. England loads America’s plate full of food, then puts about a third of that amount on his own plate. He asks twice if America needs anything else, to which America says no both times, laughing at the second. “You don’t have to wait on me, Iggy.”

Reluctantly, England finally sits down in his seat. “I know, it’s just that it’s your—” His eyes widen as if with epiphany and he hops up again. “Crumpets, I almost forgot!” He scurries out.

America watches him go, still chewing a bite of pork. All of the food is incredible, in that homey, familiar way he would expect to have at a rural dinner in his own country. Nothing is fancy or exotic or complicated, but sometimes that’s more satisfying. It’s pure, in a way. _Made with love._ He knows it’s true this time. His heart feels almost too big for his heroic chest. He and England have had plenty of good times in their five months together, but none quite like this. Their dynamic has always been similar to what England has with France—a never-ending pissing contest with a dash of psychological warfare for spice. A scale always tipping, a teeter-totter of give and take, with England always clawing his way to dominance in the end. He always has to be the victor. The one on top, figuratively and physically. For America, it’s endearing at times. Other times it’s exhausting. And sometimes it’s just downright annoying.

But there isn’t any of that with this new, changed England. The air around him does not crackle with tension just waiting to rise. It’s sweet and warm, just like him, radiating kindness. He isn’t pushing to be in charge, and because of that, America doesn’t have to either. They can finally relax around one another. At long last, England is comfortable, America is comfortable, and it’s happy all around.

“Ta-da!”

America looks up. England walks over to him, a plate in his hands, and on that plate is a big pink cake with white icing and candles glowing on top, arranged in the shape of a heart. England sets the cake down beside America’s plate, grinning. He has one crooked tooth in there, something he didn’t have before. Another little detail that makes America’s heart go as warm as the tiny flames adorning his cake.

“Happy birthday, love,” England says, blue eyes sparkling with adoration. He rests a small hand on America’s shoulder. “Make a wish.”

America vaguely recalls his first wish, with a pink-and-white swirled candle identical to those on the cake now. So far, it’s come true. _Probably a coincidence._ He doesn’t want to get greedy, but England always used to say it was a good idea to hedge your bets. So, before he inhales, he says, “I wish that you and I live happily forever after.”

England’s eyes glisten with tears of happiness.

America grins at him, then blows out the candles.

 

UNITED KINGDOM 

England dreams of America.

There was a time when England dreamt of America every night. It was before England had colonized the land, before he even knew the land was there to be colonized. In his teen years, his days were full of travelling the seas, seeking out new lands and taking them for his own. He was never fussy with the weapons he used; swords, bullets, lies, sex. He’d always had fantasies of finding a place as vast and plentiful as America—and Canada, for that matter. So large compared to his little island, overflowing with resources, a bright apple just begging to be bitten. How beautiful the New World had been, how pure America and Canada were as children. England had envied them for that, too. They had not been torn asunder by surrounding bullies. In fact, they had been fascinated to see grown nations; when America first saw England, he stared up at him with huge blue eyes, the awe one would have for a god.

Perhaps that was why England had pulled America into his bed so many years later. He wanted to see that look of awe again. He so wanted to be something worth appreciation.

His dream is not of Little America, nor of the present-day nation. Rather, it’s the middle years, the time when America’s Wild West of debauchery and mayhem was bristling against the slow, steady taming force of Progress. In retrospect, England considers it rather fitting: America perfectly fit the stereotype of the rebellious teenager. At the time, England had been quietly furious. Here he was, prim and civilized with his Victorian ideals, and across the Atlantic, America was shooting people on horseback just for the hell of it. (It wasn’t the shooting England had a problem with, really; he was just jealous America got to have all the fun. England misses his pirate days more than he lets on.) Then came the outcries against slavery, the same type of protest England was having, but his never reached the controversy it did in the States. Now came the consequence of America’s touted First Amendment: his South and North spoke, disagreed, and so a Civil War began. Despite diplomatic requests, England refused to help either side. _If you wanted my help, you wouldn’t have bloody left me._

And this is what he dreams of, a blending of dream and memory. He remembers America sauntering up to him, wearing the suit England had once given him, legs a bit bowed from straddling a saddle. Germany is famed for the intensity of his blue eyes, but nothing could compare to the gaze America leveled on England that day. It was the blue of a sky above an unforgiving prairie, eager to watch you thrive or die below, not bothered by whichever fate became you.

In his memory, America said, _All I wanted was to be your equal. And equals help each other._

In his dream, America says nothing, because he is kissing England.

Back then, England felt only dark emotions when he looked at America. Betrayal, for declaring war against him. Envy, for having the potential for such power (and what power it would turn out to be, good God). And, though he thought it was just an extension of envy at the time, lust oozed like oil through his veins whenever he saw gun-slinging America. These days, America is the hero, the golden boy, the good guy. But, for a while, England saw something peeking through the seams. Something darker, harsher. Something hungry.

In the dream, when they kiss, it is not the loving kisses America gives now. It’s not even the taunting kisses France gives whenever they wind up in their recurring embrace, sensually arrogant from knowing England’s body as well as his own. It is a kiss fueled purely by desire; it is the oil in England’s veins set to flame. It is, in fact, the same kiss England once gave to countless nations, and even humans. A kiss from the power-hungry to the powerful, latching on and leaching whatever drop of goodness it can get.

“Wake the fuck up.”

And just like that, England is awake. Sensation overwhelms his brain. The orange light of sunset comes in through a window, but this isn’t his bedroom. He doesn’t recognize this room at all. The wallpaper is peeling, there are jeans and socks strewn on the floor, and the place reeks of cigarette smoke. _What in God’s name—?_ England’s arms are stretched above his head, and when he tries to lower them, he discovers they are bound at the wrist to the wrought-iron headboard. His ankles are bound to the other end of the bed. His heart starts to race. His human body cannot be actually killed, but it can certainly be hurt. Fear for himself is swiftly replaced by something more potent. _Where is America?_

“Don’t strain yourself, you’re already one stroke away from bustin’ a nut.”

England immediately jerks his head to the right, the side of the room opposite the window. What had looked like another pile of clothes in his peripheral vision is actually a man, sitting on the floor with one leg outstretched, the other bent, an arm resting on the raised knee. He wears dark blue jeans, a black leather jacket over a white muscle shirt, and shoes that look for all the world like cowboy boots.

He could be America’s twin in another life. The same facial design, but darker skin, and red eyes that remind England of Prussia. He has sunglasses on top of his head, and he’s looking at England in a way that is at once suspicious and dismissive. His remark holds England’s attention before anything else, however; it’s true that England woke up painfully hard, but now that he’s seen this strange place, his erection is swiftly disappearing. The fact that this familiar-faced stranger was paying attention to the goings-on within England’s trousers (no matter how obvious they may be) makes defiance flush his chest, rising up from beneath his askew collar.

“Is this a dream?” England demands.

The man with America’s face arches an auburn eyebrow. In some East Coast accent—England can never tell the difference between Boston and New York—he replies, “You dream about wakin’ up tied to beds a lot, there, dollface?”

The patronizing term of endearment has England scowling. “I didn’t think it was. What, then, an alternate reality?” Before the other man can respond, England asks, “Who are you?”

As expected, the dark nation replies, “America.”

 _Well, shite._ How in hell did he get here? The reality in itself isn’t any great surprise. As someone who practises magick and regularly sees creatures from different planes of existence, the concept of multiple realities is nothing profound to England. But the fact that he’s here without meaning to be—without even _doing_ any magick—makes, to put it bluntly, no goddamn sense whatsoever. Still, the most immediate concern is the fact that he is bound and prone on this ratty mattress.

“I am the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland,” he announces, even though he can still hear Prussia and Spain mocking him. _It really is too long._ He wishes he could change it, but that would just bring up more embarrassing Brexit remarks. “Untie me immediately. I don’t care what reality this is. You have no right to treat another nation in this demeaning and disrespectful way.”

America doesn’t even seem to hear him at first. Exasperatingly apathetic, he gets to his feet and approaches the bed, each step accompanied by two thumps: his heel, then the flat of his boot. His shoulders roll back, drawing the material of his muscle shirt taught over his chest and abdomen. England feels his jaw slacken slightly. His America isn’t weak, not in the slightest, but his human body isn’t as muscular as others, like Germany. America prefers eating to exercising, and over the years he’s rounded out enough that any muscles he has are difficult to notice. But this dark America clearly has no such problem. He stands with the cool confidence of a trained fighter facing a street thug. He does not overcompensate with volume or heroic claims like England’s America. He knows what he is capable of, and he lets it speak for itself. England doesn’t yet know what those capabilities are, but he is at once allured and repulsed by the mystery.

“I might untie ya,” America says, words wandering out slowly, as if he could care less. “Maybe. If you earn it.”

“Earn it?” England echoes, incredulous. “Are you mad? I haven’t done anything to _earn_ being tied up in the first place!”

(Not that he’s never been bound like this before, but it’s quite uncomfortable. His hands have already started going numb from being stuck above his head; the pins and needles will come soon. And his shoulders are beginning to ache. Also, his erection is gone now, for those keeping track.)

“Hmm.” America puts his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “That’s funny. ’Cause I left an England tied to this bed, but it sure as hell wasn’t _you._ And now I’m comin’ back to find him replaced. You sayin’ you didn’t do anything to make that happen?”

England shakes his head vehemently. “I had absolutely nothing to do with it. I was asleep! I didn’t intend to wake up here, I assure you.” He regards the room, the cracked ceiling and hazy window, with little effort put into hiding his disgust. “If the other England isn’t here, that must mean we switched places. But I don’t know what could ever have caused that to happen. Does he do magick, as well? Could he have done it?”

America snorts. “Yeah, no. He doesn’t do much in the way a magick. ’Sides, even if he did, I left him here waitin’ for punishment. His mind wasn’t on realities and pullin’ rabbits outta hats.”

England has a brief second of resentment for that remark—magick is _not_ the same as magic—before his mind backtracks to the previous sentence. “Punishment? What kind of punishment?”

“It’s the Fourth a July, ain’t it?” America steps away from the bed, opens the top drawer of a dresser, and withdraws something that looks like a large ping pong paddle. “Gotta do somethin’ to commemorate me kickin’ your ass.” His lips quirk a bit. “My England likes it rough. What about you?”

England could say a lot of things to that question. _Yes, sometimes._ _No, not anymore._ The truth is that he hasn’t had genuinely rough sex for many years, but when he did have it, he loved every ramming, slamming, god _damn_ ing second of it. He and America—his America—have never done it, because he has never let America dominate him. Just thinking of it now, the smug Yankee grin, makes England angry. So he snaps, “What I like is none of your bloody business. Now untie me this instant.”

America’s eyebrows lift slightly. He drops the paddle back into the drawer, but does not close it. He moves to stand at the foot of the bed, a light tone coming to his voice that sounds anything but cheery. “You woulda thought a little doll like you would be polite, in your position.” He leans forward, one hand braced for balance on the mattress, the other deftly undoing England’s belt. Clearly, he’s had a lot of practise in unbuckling with one hand. “I don’t much like bein’ talked to like that by somebody like you. Especially not on my birthday.”

England tries to squirm free of the touch, but his range of movement is limited. “What are you doing?!” he cries, aghast. “Do not _dare_ —!”

America pauses, hand warming England’s thigh through his trousers. “Tell me you don’t want it,” he says, voice dipping low, raspy. “What were you dreamin’ about that had you so turned on, huh?”

England knows he should say _no_ right away, but he doesn’t. He thinks about it. He was dreaming about America, but not _his_ America. Not really. He was dreaming about an America who didn’t try to make the world love him, who acted without caring about the rules, who exuded the rough life of sex and death that England had once lost himself in so completely.

Without knowing it, England was dreaming of this red-eyed America.

“Tell me,” the dark nation rumbles, “you want it.”

 _Is it cheating, if it’s America?_ England feels guilty, and alarmed—he shouldn’t be doing this, he should be trying to get back home! But then he remembers his last interaction with America, and his emotions sink low, into the abyss. America is probably glad to be with the other England. He’ll probably be happy for the break. _I might as well do this. I’m already terrible. I deserve to be punished._ Barely audible, England whispers, “I . . . I want it.”

America hears it, despite the undertone. His lips spread, showing a crescent of bright white teeth. “First things first.” In a fluid movement, he tugs England’s belt from around his hips and doubles it up in his hands. “When you speak to me. Address me as _sir_.”

England has done this before, long ago. But never with America. Never with the son who left him. _Bastard._ He won’t say it. England is the sire, the one who deserves respectful, formal address. Not the brat who left. “No. Pick something else to be called.”

America actually looks surprised. “Oh, I do have somethin’ else. But that comes later.” He swiftly tugs the belt tight; the sudden _crack!_ of leather on leather makes England jump. “Since you just back-talked. We’ll start off simple. Repeat after me. _I’ve been very bad. Please forgive me, sir_.”

England glares up at the other nation. “I’ve been very bad.” He stays pointedly silent afterward, daring the dark man to punish him. _Do your worst. There’s nothing you can do to me that hasn’t already been done. You can’t do anything to take my dignity away._

America stares at him, then a gravelly laugh breaks its way out of his chest. “Oh, this is gonna be fun,” he says, shaking his head to himself in amusement. Then he brings the firm leather of the belt down on England’s right thigh, dangerously close to his groin; stinging pain radiates from the spot, burning through his quadriceps, but he restrains his reaction to a small, mostly instinctive jerk away.

“You’ve been very bad,” America intones, smirking. “Beg for forgiveness, or the other leg gets it.”

England knows the role he’s expected to play here, and for a moment he thought he’d be able to do it. But this man is still America, albeit an alternate one. That smirk, though more sinister and surrounded by a thin layer of dark stubble, is still one America could potentially give upon dominating him. That smirk marks the first crack that ever appeared in the British Empire’s castle of glass. England went into that war untouchable, and came out weeping in the rain.

But he is still the same man, deep down. If he learned anything from his time spent crushed under the blunt end of a battle axe, it is this: never give in completely. _There will be no surrender until the last drop of blood falls._

He meets America’s gaze. “I’ve been very bad,” he says, in the same way he would in the pirate days, chained to the mast of a Spanish ship, sneering in the faces of those mortal men who thought they could break him. A bastard, and proud.

America’s scarlet gaze darkens with something predatory. “Guess both Englands like takin’ it rough, huh?” And England realizes it’s lust in the other nation’s eyes. “Do you like your America to hit ya? Do you ask him to pound your ass?”

Never.

And yet.

The thought of it, the submission he has sworn himself against for centuries, slips into his mind and swirls through his brain, twisting into the darkest corners of his psyche. He has never let himself actually picture it—his America, looming over him like this, having absolute power over him, _wanting_ him, silliness gone from his eyes, gentle hands at last relishing in their strength as a superpower, punishing his ex-sovereign for ever trying to control him.

Once the idea gets through, the floodgates are open. Endless images of them, England bent backward over the couch, grasping the cushions so hard the buttons pop off—America pinning him to the wall, holding him up in the air, England’s back sliding up and down the floral wallpaper with each thrust—England’s body relenting, letting the intruder in, sensing the other is stronger and will always be stronger—America lifting him onto the kitchen table, fucking him after they eat, silverware clanging against plates, table legs groaning across the wood floor, leftover food smearing skin, everything dirty in the best possible way and both of them loving it.

It goes right to England’s cock, and, under this strange but familiar America’s darkly gleeful gaze, he starts to get hard again.

Pearly white teeth flash in a grin. America does not hit England’s other thigh, as threatened. Instead, he unbuttons England’s shirt with surprising grace and, after baring England’s chest, again raises his hand. The smack of the belt startles England first, but the sting of it, on the most tender part of his chest, makes a whimper escape him. A painful tingle spreads outward from his nipple. He is extremely aware of his skin, of his rib cage, the fortifications of the fragile human body. He has never felt like this before. It quiets him, this exchange of power and pain. For him, sex has always been a sprint up a mountain, a ravenous hunt for flesh. Always fast. Always with the end goal in mind. Stalk, chase, attack, kill. _I’ll be slow_ , America had assured him. But he has never wanted to go slow. He has never wanted to yield.

Until now.

Quietly, barely moving his lips in case this inner serenity is a deer that can be frightened away, England murmurs, “I’ve been very bad. Please forgive me, sir.”

America smiles, the first genuine, praising smile he has given so far. “Good boy.”

And with those two simple words, England’s long-broken heart begins to mend.


	3. Wax and Bone

UNITED STATES 

“Are you serious?”

England nods with a gleeful little grin.

America savors another bite of birthday cake. He can’t help but moan from the sweet, delicious flavors on his tongue: frosting, of course, so rich he wishes he could have licked the spoon when it was being made, and the cake itself has the perfect texture, not too dry and not too thick. He’s never wanted to eat food _slower_ before. “Like, _seriously_? You made this all by yourself?”

“Of course.” England watches the forkfuls of cake disappear into America’s mouth. It’s not the look of a proud chef, like France gets when he watches people eat his food; rather, it’s the loving gaze of a mother happy to give her child sustenance. America has never seen such open adoration from England, and while it’s pretty strange, he doesn’t mind it at all. “Do you like it?”

“Well, _duh_.” America sticks his tongue out, vibrant from the pink icing. “It’s amazing. I’m so proud of you, Iggy.” Normally he would avoid bringing up something that caused England stress, but everything feels so chill right now, he isn’t afraid to talk about it. “You wanted to do it and you did it. That’s pretty awesome. And what a job you did. Holy shit.”

England had begun to look confused, but at the last word his smile is replaced by a round-mouthed look of disbelief and disapproval. “America,” he chides. “ _Language_.”

That makes him raise his eyebrows. “Wait. _You_ don’t want me to swear? You swear more than anybody I know! You swear even more than Prussia!”

England blinks. “I do?”

America has to laugh at his startled expression. _God, he’s adorable. Was he always this cute and I just didn’t notice ’cause he was so grumpy?_ He’s pretty sure the freckles have added considerably to the cuteness. “Yup, ’fraid so. You have a filthy mouth.” Particularly in the bedroom, though America doesn’t mention that just yet. England has always been a big fan of dirty talk, and America usually likes it, too. _Tell me how much you want me to take you._ America does love when England gets his sexy villain voice going ( _just because all of your movie villains are British does not mean I have a villain voice, America_ ). He just wishes he could do some dirty talk of his own. But England doesn’t want to be submissive in any respect, including words. America isn’t allowed to say _I wanna fuck you so bad_ , only _I want you to fuck me so bad._

But this England is different in every other respect. So maybe, just maybe, he’ll let America have his way in bed.

Once the thought enters his mind, he can think of little else. He declines a second slice of cake, promising to have one tomorrow and kissing England’s lightly disappointed frown away. Then they do the dishes together, England washing and America drying (England looks surprised to see America helping clean up, but he doesn’t ask about it). America wants to drag England off to bed, but it’s not even dark out yet. So America asks, “Whatcha wanna do? Watch a movie?”

England smiles. “You decide. It’s your birthday.”

America performs some impressive self-restraint and does not suggest they dive into bed right away. “Well . . .” An idea pops into his mind, and he smiles, because this is almost as exciting as sex. “There’s something I’ve wanted to do with you for a really long time. Like, since the ’20s.” God, what a time to be alive that decade had been. And what utter, unadulterated _hell_ had followed it.

England looks up at him eagerly. America has been referred to as a _great rowdy pup_ on more than one occasion, but now England is the one who looks like a wee puppy dog. “Really?” he asks. “What is it?”

America pauses just to make it dramatic, then says, “I’ve always wanted to swing dance with you.”

England’s eyes widen in surprise, and America adds, “It used to be a big thing here, right? Just like it was in my country. France told me you were a really good dancer, back in your day. His words, not mine.”

“France said that?” This makes England giggle a bit. He shakes his head to himself, then smiles up at America. “I don’t think I’m very good at it, but I would still love to dance with you, America.”

America grins, his heart already swelling with excitement. “Awesome! Okay, lemme get some music, hang on a sec.” He whips out his phone and queues up a playlist of swing songs. He loves this stuff, retroswing and neoswing and electroswing. There simply aren’t enough trumpets in music these days. He sets his phone down on the coffee table as the first notes of _A String of Pearls_ come flouncing out into the living room. America holds his hands out to England, already moving his shoulders with the rhythm. “May I have this dance, good sir?”

England watches him a moment before dissolving into giggles, even doubling over with his amusement. America might have felt put off—and he is very aware that the old England would never have tolerated America laughing at him like that—but the freckled nation clearly means no harm by it. When he takes America’s hands, his eyes gleam with adoration. “Oh, absolutely, good sir.”

Fingers clasped, they dance their way around the living room, expanding and contracting apart and closer to each other as the brass instruments bid, lifting their legs and swinging their arms, movements loose and bouncy as the merry melody of the music. Whether or not England used to be good at the dance cannot be known, but he isn’t particularly good now, though not for lack of trying. His short legs are rather clumsy, and they struggle to lift as high as America’s do, or move as swiftly. But neither of them mind, because the music has taken them both back to a time between wars, to a younger time, a time when everyone believed they would never die and stay young forever. America dips England, holding his hand and his back, and when he comes back up, his round cheeks are pink with effort, though he’s smiling. _He doesn’t have as much endurance as I do_ , America thinks. _He’s older, weaker. I have to look out for him._ He’s felt protective of England before, but never in those simple terms. It always seemed so complicated before. It seems easier for the other nation couples. It’s not hard to tell who takes care of who between Germany and Italy, or Sweden and Finland. One is big and strong, the other small and vulnerable. America has always been jealous of Germany and Sweden and Denmark, and Russia most of all, for the size of their human bodies. He doesn’t think it’s fair that a superpower like him should have to look up to a country like _Sweden_. But next to someone like England, and especially this new England, America feels gloriously powerful.

He would never use that power against England.

But he likes feeling it there, all the same.

England only lasts a few more songs before he starts to flag, and America’s pretty out of breath too, so he throws an arm around his lover’s waist and lets them both fall backward onto the sofa. It’s incredibly old, one of many antiques that England couldn’t get rid of when he moved from his mansion (France claims he watched England take an hour to decide if he should toss or keep a throw pillow). The sofa has been reupholstered, but to America it still smells of the past—which is to say, of dust and must and mildew. That’s part of what England himself smells like, actually. Dusty old things, and the sea, and tea. A lot like tea, mostly because he drinks the stuff like America breathes air.

Of course, this new England doesn’t smell like any of that. America kisses his forehead now, nuzzles into his hair, and inhales his sweet scent. America wonders if he rubs vanilla behind his ears. People do that, don’t they? He vaguely remembers England explaining how to apply cologne, but mostly it was just, _Ugh, put more on, you still smell like bloody fast food._

England rests his head on America’s shoulder, sighing in contentment. The music is still going; it’s moved on to _In The Mood_ now. England hops his stubby fingers down America’s thigh, humming along with the familiar tune. America turns his head to kiss England’s temple. Already, this is so much better than before. With the old England, he always felt like he had to ask permission to kiss him; he was always afraid to cross one of the innumerable lines his lover had drawn. But he doesn’t feel like he’s taking anything away from England now. He feels like he’s giving, actually. Giving love, giving support. Showing affection for his beautiful, adorable boyfriend.

And then England’s hand goes between his legs.

“Jesus, Iggy,” America says, spreading them a bit wider after his moment of surprise. “Warn a guy.”

England giggles, desire sparking with the glee in his eyes, and gives America a gentle squeeze.

America lets out a little groan. He cups England’s chubby face and kisses him, loving how soft those lips are, loving that one crooked tooth, loving how England is yielding to it. The old England sometimes let America take the lead in kisses, but it was always clearly a favor done. England only ever relented slightly, his body language saying _I’ll let you take over for a while, but don’t get too used to it._ But this isn’t like that. Now America dominates the kiss with confidence that feels so natural, and England submits as if he wouldn’t have it any other way.

America gets a bit lost in their kisses, the scent of vanilla and the sweet little sighs from England swirling around him, intoxicating him. The smaller nation has straddled his lap, and they grind slowly together, America’s hands on England’s back, England’s fingers tangled in America’s hair. It’s so different than what America has grown used to, at once arousing and relaxing. He doesn’t want it to end, but at the same time, he needs it to escalate. He wants to show England just how much he loves this new him. And, of course, he wants to top. The time has come.

America gives one last kiss to England’s neck, then pulls back, smiling lazily. “Wanna take this to the bedroom, babe?”

 _Oops._ England has snapped at him multiple times for terms of endearment, and he especially hates _babe_. But America can’t help it! Words like that are just part of his culture. But England never has time for that argument. _There are plenty parts of my culture that I do not partake in_ , he said once. _I’m not a child, so don’t call me one. Especially not when we’re about to have sex._

 _Another dominance thing_ , America realizes now, just as the new England whispers against his neck, “Carry me in, love.”

America is more than happy to comply. He slips an arm under England’s bum—even nicer than it used to be, America can confirm—and puts his other around England’s back to lift the smaller nation up. England wraps his arms and legs around his lover, chin resting contentedly on America’s shoulder. As he walks to the bedroom, America gets a brief flash of memory, recalling the pair of them in the reverse of this position—America the child, carried off to bed by England the sire. It’s a bit of a shame to feel those days stretch so far behind him, but he loves being strong enough now to carry the remnants of an empire. He loves being able to stand between England and—well, if not _all_ harm, then the majority of it.

In the bedroom, America lays England down gently on the mattress. England lies there, a bulge matching America’s in his trousers, pale skin warmed to a slight pink tint, blue gaze lingering and eager. He starts untying his bow tie, and America sets to work on the easier things: socks, then trousers, then underwear. By the time he’s done, England has taken off his vest and shirt, and so he lies there fully naked and, to America’s wonder, fully coated in freckles. England used to dislike America staring at his chest and abdomen; it isn’t muscular enough to England, and his ribs are too clearly visible. _I nearly starved before the loan, and I’ve looked like a dying orphan ever since._ Well, England doesn’t have to worry about that anymore. His belly has a small swell to it while lying on his back, just the softest little hill. And God, his thighs, his waist, his arms . . . America can’t stop staring, devouring with his eyes.

“Christ, England,” America says. “You’re beautiful.”

The smaller nation smiles. “And you’re handsome.” He holds his arms out. “Come here, love. Come to me.”

America tears his clothes off—he could’ve ripped them to pieces if he _really_ wanted to, but he doesn’t want to seem overly barbaric—and climbs on top of his lover, taking a moment just to enjoy the feeling of hot skin on hot skin, their weeping cocks grinding together, their hands stroking spines and sides and thighs, touching wherever they can touch. America wants to learn this new body so he knows it as well as he knew the old one. Better than the old one, because now England doesn’t mind him exploring. Now England doesn’t mind him lifting freckled legs onto his shoulders, spreading fleshy cheeks, and licking the pucker that lies between; in fact, it has him tipping his head back into the pillows and moaning America’s name, four syllables that throb deliciously through the younger nation’s cock. He’s had plenty of dreams—yes, wet dreams, hilarious—of doing this to England, but he’s never been allowed to do it. The triumph turns him on just as much as the taboo of this once-forbidden fruit.

England keeps a supply of lubrication and condoms in the drawer beneath the bedside table, so America only has to reach over to get what he needs. They rarely use condoms. The first couple times they did, because England hadn’t been tested in a few decades. ( _When you aren’t promiscuous, it’s hardly a priority._ As if it’s some huge secret that the only sexual partner England has these days, aside from America, is France. America isn’t jealous. England and France aren’t dating. They’re fuck buddies, really, though America doubts either nation would refer to themselves as such. Friends with benefits is probably more acceptable. England has never talked to America about it, so he has no idea if his boyfriend has gone to France’s bed since they’ve started dating. He guesses it doesn’t matter either way. But he does wonder if England’s self-esteem might grow if he didn’t let France get to him, in more ways than one . . .)

America knows how to prepare a partner, though he’s gotten rusty in recent years. He’s had what he considers to be a fair amount of sexual encounters (if he could see England or France’s history, his mind would be quite boggled). He knows firsthand that the process can take a fair bit of time, depending on how the recipient is feeling, how warm the room is, all sorts of factors. England lost patience with it once, too desperate to show and revel in his power. Always rushing. He’d ended up pushing America’s thighs together and fucking those instead, then finishing America off with his mouth afterward. It hadn’t been terrible. But America prefers when they can savor the journey as much as the destination.

And that’s what he does now. He slides his fingers in and out of England slowly, one then two, then just one again, then two, taking his time to stretch the smaller nation, watching England come more and more undone with each passing minute. England’s cheeks are darker pink now, and his hair is mussed from the pillow, sticking up in random places. America never knew someone could be so adorable and sexy at the same time.

When America pushes in three fingers up to the third knuckle, England outright begs, voice so amazingly wanton, “Oh, America, _please_ , take me, please!”

And America does just that. He lays himself over England, a brush of lips, the meeting of eyes, the slicked entrance offering just a bit of resistance, and then— _Ah. There._

America is inside England.

He can’t keep himself from moaning, eyes closing, giving the smallest thrusts he can manage, helpless against how fucking great this feels. Warm and tight, of course, but it’s different. It’s more than just the physical. It’s _England._ It’s what he’s wanted for five months, for years before that if he’s honest. “Oh my God, Iggy,” he says, on the edge of another deep moan. “You feel so good. You’re so _soft_ . . .”

Beneath him, England responds with a moan of his own, this one high, feminine, given through a sigh. He begins rolling his hips, grinding up into America’s restrained thrusts, and it’s like his body is beckoning, alluring, imploring. _Come get me, big boy._ America doesn’t hesitate; he couldn’t if he tried. He does not pound England, and it’s not as rushed as the Brit once liked it to be, but each push inward is like a flash of lightning, heat and history and love and lust and burning their skin and tangling around them—England’s freckled skin the soft petal of a rose, so beautiful, so perfect—America’s rising pleasure prickling, thorns, poking, sharp, rising—drawing blood, the rush of hot release—!

“ _England_.” America rocks into his lover one last time before going still above him, panting. He would have liked to collapse onto the smaller man, but he thinks it’ll probably crush him (correct, in a hyperbolic kind of way). So he braces his weight on either side of England and breathes heavily, briefly steamrolled by the fantastic feeling spreading through his body.

When he opens his eyes, he sees that England has come too—there are telltale white spatters on America’s abdomen—and is gazing up at him with heavy lidded blue eyes, full of nothing but pleasure and love, more unguarded love than England has shown since America was just a colony. America’s heart has soared, truly _soared_ , twice in his life. Once, at the signing of the Paris Treaty, when his independence became a true fact in writing. And here, on this bed in London on the Fourth of July, when England looked up at him with love so apparent even a blind man would know it was there. And he still says it.

“I love you.”

America lies down beside his lover and pulls him into his arms. Even when they kiss, he cannot stop smiling. “I love you, too.” They lie here, America leaving gentle kisses over England’s cheeks, chin, nose, forehead, eyelids, until the freckled nation has drifted off to sleep. (Even his snoring is adorable.) They need a shower and the sheets need to be changed, and it’s really too early to go to bed, but America doesn’t get up. _Happy birthday to me._ He holds England close and grins to himself, giddy. _Happy birthday to me._ He has never been so happy for a spell gone wrong. No. Gone right. _Happy birthday, dear America._ Not a mistake, but a miracle.

_Happy birthday to me._

 

UNITED KINGDOM 

“What is that?” England demands, drawn briefly from his subspace by a sudden cool wet substance being poured onto the bare skin of his back.

He recognizes his mistake immediately, but America takes his time, as usual. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” the dark nation says, somewhere behind England. “You know the rule. You call me _sir._ Apologize for breaking the rule.”

England rests his cheek on the pillow. It smells, oddly, like vanilla. “I’m sorry, sir. Please forgive me, sir.”

America’s response is to smack the back of England’s thighs with the belt. He untied the Brit a few minutes ago, but only so he could strip him and retie him on his stomach. England feels infinitely more vulnerable like this, legs spread, arse presented, erection pinned rather uncomfortably between his body and the mattress. But the instinct to protest this only translates to more arousal. He would so hate if his America did this to him, or any other country for that matter (yes, even the frog). The fact that this man, a stranger really, is allowed to overpower him is . . . well, liberating. There is only a distant kind of history here. Yes, America won the war here, but not against _him._ That was another England. Here there is no personal history. He has no reputation to uphold. He is allowed to be himself.

And after centuries of calling the shots, for better or for worse, England is ready to let someone else take control.

“Clearly you ain’t done wax play before,” America remarks, sounding unimpressed—but beneath that, there is an unmistakable joy in informing, in giving someone a new experience. Hearing that in his voice warms England to him a bit. _He wouldn’t do this if he didn’t enjoy it,_ England thinks. _He’s not off his head. He just likes being dominant._

England did too, for a while. But now that he’s with America—this dark one and his normal one—things are starting to change.

“No, sir,” England replies, “I haven’t.”

“Well, this is oil,” America tells him, and England feels the strong, calloused hands rubbing across the skin of his back, smoothing the oil over his flesh until it’s slick and shining. “It’ll keep ya from burnin’.”

 _Burning?_ England wants to ask, but at the same time, he wants to trust America to keep him safe. This lets him sink deeper into the mindset of submission. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but that’s okay, because America will take care of him. _This America. Not mine._ Being turned on by the image of his America fucking him is not the same thing as being ready for it to happen. But he’s coming to terms with the concept of changing his mind. For England, that’s real progress.

England lies there, looking at the dirty window, listening to America make himself busy on the other side of the room. He hears a lighter flick to flame, the metallic scratch; it reminds him of East End, smoking with the chavs back in the day. _Bum a fag, mate?_ He likes to present himself as posh to the other nations, the prim and proper English gentleman, but he’s much more than that. France and Spain and Prussia know that. Denmark and Norway, too. But does America realize how many intricate branches make up the tree of England? Or, indeed, how many roots?

Soon America returns to England’s side; he feels the mattress shift as the bigger man kneels beside him. England lifts his head to see what America is doing, but he catches only a glimpse of flame and a thick red candle before he feels a trail of droplets burning their way down his spine. The heat is a shock; the pain is not the worst he has ever felt, but in such a calm setting, it is so unnerving that he cries out, “Ah! Stop!”

The word is barely out of his mouth before the wax is wiped swiftly from his skin with a wet towel. Relief, though his heart still races with leftover adrenaline. England looks over his shoulder, expecting more punishment, but instead America is looking at him with his eyebrows drawn together, something complicated about his mouth. He looks, England realizes with a jolt, guilty.

“Sorry,” America says. His voice isn’t as low and impenetrable as before. “I forgot you didn’t know the safeword. It’s _cupcakes_.”

England stares at him, breaths calming gradually. “Why _cupcakes_? Sir,” he adds, a hurried afterthought.

A corner of America’s mouth quirks up. “My England loves to bake.” Now his voice has gone quiet. It’s not exactly soft, being so gravelly, but it’s as close as this dark nation can get. “Cupcakes are his favorite.”

 _Well, then. America will be happy with him._ England recalls the failed attempts at birthday cake, and his mood threatens to plummet down into depression. _America is happy back home. And I’m . . . I’m not unhappy here._ He is neither contented nor discontented here. He simply _is_ here, and there’s something to be said for simply existing. It is far less exhausting than being trapped in a cycle of bad moods. Aside from the loneliness, England’s splendid isolation was like that. He didn’t get involved with anyone else’s guff, and though he had no one to make him happy, he had no one to break his heart, either. And without personal history in this reality, he has the best of both worlds. He has no connections with the nations here, but he doesn’t have to be alone.

England doesn’t want to think anymore. He wants his tranquility back. So he gives a little wriggle that he hopes will look alluring and says in a cum-fuck-me voice, “I’m ready for more, sir. I want it.”

A look of intense lust replaces the faint smile. “Yeah?” America asks, tone hardening again, dominance reclaimed. “You want me to paint you with this candle? You want wax to drip over your skin? You want me to mark you with it?” He lifts the candle, the flame’s reflection glittering in his eyes. “Everything it touches is mine. Your body belongs to me.”

England closes his eyes, reveling in the way those words make him feel. _I am not my own._ So freeing, so bittersweet, the tearing-away of responsibility, the sacrifice of it. _Have me,_ he is saying. _Have as much of me as you can take._ This, ironically, may be the most equal thing England has ever done in the bedroom. In the extreme of The Dominant and The Submissive, such selfless giving and taking, there is something pure. Trust. Connection. Tranquility, the fawn in the glen.

This time, the heat of the wax only makes him gasp, and he feels far away from the pain. The heat wraps itself around him; the pain wraps itself around his heart, lace soaked with blood. So beautiful, even in the wake of everything. _I would like to be something beautiful,_ England lets himself think. There is no judgement now. Not here.

America doesn’t wipe the wax away. Instead, he lets it cool. When England shifts, he feels the hardened wax clinging to his skin, sort of thick in places, stiff. He cranes his neck to look; it looks like someone was bloodletting him, scarlet dripping down his spine and sides. But it is art, in a way. He has become art.

America has stepped back to admire his work. He meets England’s gaze and smirks. “You look good, dollface. I think I’ll keep that on ya ’til we’re done.”

 _There’s more?_ He isn’t opposed to it. This would be rather anticlimactic, anyway.

America unties England’s ankles, then his wrists. “Move slow,” he advises as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “You’ll be stiff.”

This is true. England’s muscles lament as he sits up, his limbs at first unwilling to contract until he flexes them a few times. He likes the gentle tug of the wax on his back, a reminder of what he is. Property of the United States of America. Once he’s worked out his kinks—ha, that one really is hilarious—he looks expectantly at America.

The dark nation beckons him shortly. “Come here. Lie across my lap.”

England obeys without hesitation, crawling over and draping himself across America’s thighs, feeling the bulge through his jeans. His own cock is at half-mast now, from lack of attention (aside from a vain attempt to rut against the mattress earlier). America adjusts him with firm hands, never with more strength than necessary, but never sugarcoated into gentleness. One of America’s hands rests on England’s shoulder, a reminder to stay in place. The other rests on England’s ass.

“Please, sir,” England murmurs, already knowing what it will be, already wanting it.

“No more _sir_.” America’s voice is just a rumble over him now; he can almost feel it vibrating through him. “Now you call me Daddy.”

Everything within England that had been quivering eagerly now goes completely still. That word does more things to England than a novel of filth ever could. A shiver runs through him, and he hears the sweet laughter of Little America, feels the protective love for the boy who was the nation equivalent of a son—and at the same time, he hears his America, grown and handsome, moaning as England makes love to him. It is twisted, and arousing for that, and more twisted for _that_ —but it is comforting, too. They are not humans, after all; raising America then and dating him now only translates to more love, in England’s eyes (and, more importantly, in his heart). And now the tables are turning, the river’s flow altered. He can either go along or drown.

So he says, “Yes, Daddy.”

He doesn’t recognize his voice. It’s smaller than normal. Thinner. Weaker, some might call it.

But, for once, he doesn’t mind.

“Christ, you’re a skinny little doll.” America’s fingers knead England’s cheeks. “What’re you waitin’ for? Beg for it.”

England swallows his last drop of pride. It goes down much easier than he ever thought it would. “Please, Daddy,” he says, adding a whiney edge to his voice. “Please spank me.”

America’s palm strikes England’s ass, the smack of flesh-on-flesh, the sharp sting. “You like it?”

“Yes, Daddy,” England says again. “I—I’ve been very naughty, Daddy.” Humiliation isn’t so different from arousal. His blood rushes to his skin either way. His heart races. He feels intensely present, and yet he grows distant. Parts of his mind fray, threads splitting off in different directions, perhaps seeking escape. One remembers laying Little America across his own lap to spank him for bad behavior. One hears Prussia’s voice, speaking of England and France: _Here’s the new parents! So, which one of you is Daddy?_ One is in the tranquil forest glen.

America spanks England again. And again. Each open-handed blow snips another thread within England. He is not remembering. He is not within tranquility. He is here. He is _hard_. His skin is red, abused, bits of wax break off, sweat and oil slick his skin, and America is smacking his ass and growling, “Tell me you love it!” and England can only weep from the pain and the overwhelming heat in his skin rising to a fever pitch, and when America slaps him again it’s the hardest yet and England jolts forward and cries, “I love it, Daddy!” and it sounds like the squeal of a slut, of a trollop, and he has never heard himself make such sounds, and he comes before he can do anything to stop himself.

America rolls England over onto his back, cradling him and stroking his cock as it twitches through its orgasm, giving gentle tugs to help the other nation down from his peak. England whimpers at the touch, insensible now, tears wetting his cheeks, hair damp on his forehead. He is only vaguely aware of America wiping him clean, lifting him up, tucking him into the bed. Then, somewhere, the stifled groan of the dark nation finishing himself off, and then warm, strong arms around England. _“Good boy.”_ America holds him close while England’s mind drifts further and further into a cozy, satisfied blackout, the first sleep he has had in years where he does not dream, where his mind is not still locked in its constant plague of ambition, its hunger for more. He simply drifts into a sea of warm nothing, and he sleeps.


	4. Halcyon Day

UNITED KINGDOM 

England wakes up alone.

Morning light comes through the filthy window. The pillow smells of vanilla; the sheets smell of sex and cigarettes. _I’m still here, then._ He doesn’t feel good or bad about that. On the one hand, he could feel terrible because he misses his own bed and his reality and his America. On the other hand, he could feel glad that his loved ones no longer have to deal with his bullshit. England’s not sure which is the less heartbreaking option, so he pushes them both out of his head and instead focuses on an emotion he hasn’t felt genuinely since he was a bright-eyed youth: curiosity. Curiosity was what began his exploration of the sea all those years ago. Sure, it became bloodthirsty, lascivious greed eventually, but in the beginning it was curiosity. _I wonder what’s out there!_ And that’s what he feels now, for this alternate reality. It’s a new land, after all. He might as well enjoy himself and explore.

There are clothes all over the floor, but he can’t find his own anywhere, and he isn’t about to wander through someone else’s house naked. _He’s seen everything already._ England remembers America’s calloused hand stroking him through the most intense orgasm he’s had in months and a shiver goes through him. His back is still a little stiff, but the majority of the wax has been removed from his skin. Still, England wants to have a shower. He’s been through the days before indoor plumbing, and he prefers not to live like that now if at all possible.

England finds a sweater—it has a 13 emblazoned on it, America’s second favorite number—and tugs it on. He has to roll the sleeves up three times, and the lower hem hangs to the middle of his thighs. It covers up the things that aren’t allowed on television, so it serves its purpose. He feels a little vulnerable without pants, but he isn’t interested in wearing America’s boxers, let alone determining whether they’re clean or not.

The bedroom door opens out into an upstairs hall. It isn’t as messy as the bedroom, but England wouldn’t describe it as _nice._ The wallpaper isn’t torn, but there are several fist-shaped dents in the painted plaster above, and the air smells distinctly of fry-up and marijuana. There are three doors to choose from, all closed, with a paper taped to one of them. England steps over to read it. The penmanship is atrocious; the method of writing seems to be pressing as hard as possible without making the pencil stab through the paper. It takes England a moment to decipher, but it says **_Shower & clothes in here. Dont use all the water._ **

England isn’t sure if the note refers to hot water or just water in general, so he keeps his shower brief and does his best to ignore the unsightly ring of rust around the drain and the black mold lining every crevice. His clothes are a bit wrinkled from spending the night on the floor, but they’re clean enough to wear; he’s worn things for more than two days straight in the past. _Human bodies and their clothing,_ he thinks as he buttons up his shirt. _No one ever expects a land mass to cover themselves up._ Humans are peculiar. England understands them about as well as a zookeeper understands a bear. They behave in predictable patterns, until they randomly decide to tear your arm off. Well, perhaps that isn’t the best analogy. A human could never hurt a nation, not physically. Sometimes the humans feel like fleas, clinging to their hosts and sucking dry their resources. They’re greedy creatures, as a whole, particularly the bosses. Best when a country agrees with their boss’s orders. Germany let everyone see what happens when a nation and their leader are at odds.

England isn’t bitter about the Blitz anymore. But he’s never been able to look at Germany the same. Neither has France, or Poland. England despises the memories of those six years. Europe was brought to its knees, and England knows that if not for the Channel, he would have been just as ruined as France. Black sheep of Europe, yes, but at least he kept some of his wool.

Down the creaky staircase he goes. The sweet-but-rotten smell of weed and the background chatter of a television welcome him. The stairs lead out to what appears to be the living room, but England can see the kitchen from here; the only thing seperating kitchen from living room is a change from tile to wood flooring. _Americans and their open kitchens._ Some rerun of an American sitcom is playing on the TV, and, because the couch is facing away from him, England sees only the backs of a blond and dark auburn head watching. He steps around on America’s side and stands there, taking in the pair of nations. America and a man with even bigger muscles than him sit on the ratty couch, their feet on the coffee table, plates of breakfast in their laps. America has waffles, and his companion is currently shovelling a forkful of bacon and eggs into his mouth. There is a joint sitting in the ashtray with a small trail of smoke rising from it. America doesn’t look away from the television, but the other man glances at England with startling violet eyes set in the most unimpressed, lackadaisical face England has ever seen.

“Huh,” he says, voice deeper than America’s, less gravelly. “Meri’s right. You look fuckin’ weird.”

England is taken aback for a second, before he comes to his senses. “Excuse _you._ I don’t look any stranger than you. Who _are_ you?”

The blond nation raises an eyebrow, even less impressed. “Canada.”

Now England’s _really_ taken aback. His tone verges on flabbergasted. “ _You’re_ Canada?”

He sits up a bit, squaring broad shoulders; dark chest hair peeks over the top of his red flannel shirt. If America is a wolf, Canada is most definitely a bear. “Did I fuckin’ stutter?”

“Chill, man. Take a hit if you’re that goddamn antsy.” America finally looks away from the television. The back of his skull rests against the top of the couch, so he only rolls his head to the side to look at England, eyes heavy lidded. “There’s more bacon on the stove if you want it. I don’t eat that shit.”

“He’s a vegan,” Canada remarks, matter-of-fact.

England blinks. He can’t think of any food his America loves more than hamburgers, and it’s peculiar to think of this America—so rough-and-tumble—as someone against eating meat. “Oh.”

To his surprise, Canada rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Here we go.”

America rolls his head to the other side to look at his couchmate, annoyance sparking in his gaze. “Don’t make a fuckin’ thing about it. Jesus.”

“ _You_ were about to make it a fuckin’ thing,” Canada retorts.

“I didn’t _say_ anything, fucker, you were the one—”

“Son of a bitch, you do this every time—”

England lets them argue until they’re sitting up and yelling over each other and he can’t take it anymore. “BOYS!” he shouts. He spent years bellowing orders to men through cannon-fire and stormy seas; he can reach quite the volume when he needs to. “Enough!”

America and Canada both turn to stare at him, genuine surprise widening their eyes. Then they sink back into their lazy poses, and Canada takes a long drag from his joint before saying, “Damn. He really is flipped.”

“Tellin’ me,” America says. “Shoulda seen him last night.”

England feels his cheeks begin to redden. His words come out a tad shrill. “Do you happen to have any tea?”

For some reason, that makes the pair of them laugh. Canada replies, “Nah, we can swing by Timmy’s and getcha some.”

Tim Horton’s? But that means . . . England glances around the bedraggled house and says, “Wait, this is _your_ house?”

Canada swallows the last of his bacon and leans to set his plate atop a stack of similar ones on the coffee table. “Yep.”

England spares a thought for Canada—his Canada, really, though it feels sort of bittersweet to think of him that way—and his house up north, wood floors always polished and shining, fireplace always crackling with gentle warmth, everything soft and cozy and _tidy._ Even England’s America keeps his house tidy (though it was cleanest when he had Lithuania to help). This place needs to be scrubbed top to bottom, and aired out. Everything that doesn’t smell of cannabis smells of tobacco instead.

But these are first impressions, and England doesn’t want to seem ungrateful to be taken in as a guest. And, he realizes as he goes over to the stove (covered in crumbs and bits of burnt food), he’s enjoying this informal atmosphere. There’s no pressure to be the civilized one, a title he likes to claim even though France often agitates him into losing it.

England brings his plate of cold eggs and bacon back to the living room, where he has to clear his throat in order for America to shift over and let him sit down. England crosses his legs and sets the plate on his topmost knee. It’s been years since he’s eaten breakfast anywhere but at a table. He almost mentions that, but decides against it. _Let the past stay in the past. This can be a fresh start._

America puts his arm behind England’s shoulders, making him almost choke on a bit of bacon. The dark nation watches him cough for a moment before saying, “I expected you to wake up normal again. Guess it’s not gonna undo itself, huh?”

England shakes his head. “It shouldn’t have been possible in the first place. I don’t believe it just happened spontaneously. That makes absolutely no sense. _Something_ must have happened. So something will need to happen to reverse it.”

America arches an eyebrow. “Somethin’ like what?”

“Well, a ritual. I would have to open a rift. A passageway, in a sense. Basically, a tear in this reality that leads through to mine. I’ve done it before to summon things from my own reality, but I’ve never done it from one plane of existence to another.”

America and Canada are both staring at him with bland, bored expressions.

England clears his throat, sitting up a bit straighter. “It will be difficult, but it isn’t impossible. I’ll need some things for the ritual. Minerals, herbs. Perhaps some blood. And lots of candles. Is there any place round here we could find those things?”

“Yeah,” America replies. “Austria’s place.”

 _Austria does magick?_ There’s an . . . interesting image. England can’t imagine Austria doing anything other than playing the piano, sighing, or both. At the name, Canada makes a loud sound of disgust.

“Oh, don’t bitch,” America says. “It ain’t him we got the problem with.”

“I do,” Canada says. “He’s the mouth behind it all. The others all just go along with what he tells ’em.”

England glances between them. “Do I want to know what you’re talking about?”

“Just old bullshit.” America finishes his last waffle and his plate joins Canada’s. “I’m sure you have that where you come from. Have a war a hundred years ago and there’s always that one prick who acts like it happened yesterday. I hate people who can’t let shit go.”

England experiences a split second of electrifying self-awareness. _Is that what the other countries think about me? I’m the one who can’t let it go?_ He expects to feel the five stages of grief about this—namely, anger—but he just feels a bit glum. From the outside looking in, it really doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. Yes, America got independence. But it was so long ago, even by nation standards. Centuries have passed. There have been ups and downs, but there will always be ups and downs. Is it really such an issue that England can never, _ever_ forgive him for it?

_No. It isn’t._

He stops himself from thinking harder on it. The acknowledgement that he doesn’t blame America for leaving is enough. And it doesn’t change the fact that the power dynamic between his America and himself is fucked-up beyond repair. He imagines going home right now, walking up to his lover, and offering to lie across his lap and be spanked. It’s humiliating, but in the completely wrong way. With this dark America, it felt so freeing, but with his own America, it feels insulting. Like he’s lowering himself as a person. He would never do it.

He doesn’t dare ask himself why it’s so different with his own America. He’s afraid of what the answer will be.

“A flight across the pond, then?” England asks, hiding his inner turmoil with the ease of a master.

Canada snorts, and America says, “No, Austria lives an hour or so from here. He shares a place with Hungary and Prussia and Germany. Italy’s there, too, when Germany decides to tap that. Oh, and Spain crashes there like the fuckin’ freeloader that he is.”

England pauses in cutting his egg into small, easily eaten bits with the side of his fork. “Why are so many European countries living in Canada?”

America cuts his gaze pointedly to Canada, who takes a drag and asks, “How many world wars have you had so far?”

 _So far?!_ “Two.”

Canada chuckles with dark satisfaction. “Yeah, well, Europe got fucked again.”

England starts to ask what that might mean, but he really doesn’t want to know. Even in an alternate reality, hearing that his land was ravaged yet again by war could be enough to trigger some sort of PTSD episode, and he most definitely does not want to go back to having those. More than one night in the ’40s was spent twined with France, both of them bruised and battered and weeping. It wasn’t about sex, back then. _Is it ever?_ England prays, for everyone’s sake, that his reality leaves the world war count at two. The thought of the frog does, however, spike curiosity. “Does France live here, then?”

America nods. “He’s out gettin’ cigs. We ran out this mornin’. Had to arm wrestle for the last one.” He smirks. “Guess who won.”

Canada exhales a stream of thick smoke and remarks, “You people are disgusting. Do you know what’s in those damn things? Tar. And lots of other nasty shit.”

America shrugs, still smirking. “Maybe they’ll kill me.”

England has to stifle a smile. As if a tiny slip of rolled paper could hurt a creature like America.

Canada glances over at the older nation. “Do you smoke?”

England ponders how best to respond to this. The truth is that he doesn’t smoke—not cigarettes, not joints, certainly nothing stronger than those. But he did smoke, before, and he enjoyed it immensely. He still sometimes finds himself longing for the taste of a pipe, or a bit of snuff. But something keeps him from partaking. Perhaps it’s the rising stigma around drugs in his country. Or perhaps—more likely—it’s the fact that smoking was a staple of the old days, the pirate days. Yes, there was smoking before and after that, but when he was a captain . . . oh, God, the things he did. Smoking anything that could be lit, drinking anything in a bottle, completely heedless of himself and everyone around him. So stupid. So illogical. But so delicious, despite (because of?) that.

“No,” he replies, “I don’t really smoke.”

Outside, a car door slams. Loud footsteps precede the entrance of a man who is unmistakably France: a jaw stronger than most men’s wills, cheekbones sharp enough to prick your finger on, blond hair drawn back into a rather messy ponytail. His clothes are not the usual chic sort England has grown to expect, but they are still appropriately handsome. The biggest difference is the eyes. The frog England knows has bright, beautiful blue eyes (it’s always the blue eyes that haunt him). This France’s gaze is pale, eyes surrounded by dark skin as if he hasn’t slept in a month; they almost look sunken beneath that strong brow. He doesn’t look physically tired, though. If you looked up _world-weary_ in the dictionary, this man’s face is what you would see.

France doesn’t even take the cigarette from the corner of his mouth when he says flatly, “So you’re the new England.”

England raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I suppose I am. Nice to make your acquaintance.”

France blinks. It takes approximately three days. Then he replies, “Is it.”

England stares at him, then shifts his gaze to America. _Are those really just cigarettes?_

America laughs and pushes to his feet. “We’re headin’ to the Germs’ place. You comin’ with, francophone?”

Still toneless, France says, “No.”

Canada puts his joint out in the ashtray and gets up too. “Come with us.” He nudges France with his shoulder; his chest seems broader than the couch. “We’ll get, what the hell was it—we’ll get _poissons._ ”

A mixture of surprise that Canada has gotten a French word wrong and his natural inclination to correct grammar has England saying, “ _Boissons_.”

America, Canada, and France all turn to stare at him. America’s brow is lifted, Canada’s is lowered, and France’s face still hasn’t changed. No, wait—is that a tiny quirk in the corner of his mouth? And perhaps a hint of squinty-ness about his eyes?

“Didn’t realize you were a _ling_ uist,” America remarks, amused in a way that lives comfortably between mocking and teasing. It’s refreshingly genuine: say your piece and leave it up to the other person to be offended or not, and don’t care either way. England can do the first part, it’s just the not caring that he has trouble with.

England spares a second to imagine what he would do if this happened at home. _Get cross, probably. Swear a lot, probably. Make everyone upset, probably._ And if he didn’t do that, France would say, _What’s come over you, Angleterre, acting so nice? Are you feeling well?_ England has dug himself a grave. People expect him to act a certain way, and he’s managed to make the expectation be an absolute bellend. But here, there’s none of that.

So he says, “I’m a man of many talents.” He lets a smirk of his own curl around the words, then holds out a hand to France. “I’ll have a gasper, if you don’t mind sharing.”

Canada makes another sound of disgust, though not as loud as the one Austria prompted. America grins and says, “I’ll have one, too.”

France gives them each a cigarette, and America takes a lighter from his pocket. The sound of it reminds England of the night before, and a tiny, delicious shiver prickles over the small of his back. He extends his arm to America. “Light that, would you?”

America obliges, amused, and England draws from the cigarette with a rush of familiarity and, once again, liberation. _This is me. No more rules._ He blows a nearly perfect smoke ring at America and smiles at the tight feeling in his chest. It feels like a hunter, poised for the kill. Watching and waiting. Ready for whatever may come.

It feels, England realizes with delight, like power.

America arches an eyebrow as the smoke ring fades. “You want anything else before we go?”

It isn’t a question to be taken seriously, but England does want something. No harm in asking, right? “Actually, there is something.”

America, Canada, and France look at him inquiringly.

“You wouldn’t happen to have another leather jacket, would you?”

 

UNITED STATES 

America wakes up with England in his arms.

America has always wanted to do this. As long as he can remember, England has woken up before him. He has a vague memory of waking up in England’s bed as a child, driven there in the middle of the night by bad dreams. It was dark in the room, barely dawn outside the curtains. England pulled the blankets up to America’s chin, pressed a kiss to his forehead. _Go back to sleep, lad._ When America woke again, England had breakfast ready. America misses those huge English breakfasts. He eats a lot for breakfast within his own borders, but it just isn’t the same.

Now America smiles as England stirs. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

The terms of endearment don’t come completely naturally yet, because he’s gone so long thinking they’re against the rules, but England’s smile reassures him. The freckled nation’s mouth opens wide in a yawn, and it’s so cute America has to snuggle him closer and nuzzle into his neck. England gives a little giggle and murmurs, “Good morning, love.”

America trails his lips from England’s neck to his shoulder. He’s always wanted to have morning sex, or even just this, morning kisses and cuddles. England used to be so high-strung, it put so much tension on everyone. America’s glad he’s found a way to chill himself out. It’s been a long time coming.

The blanket shifts; England’s stubby fingers wrap around America’s morning wood. A low groan rumbles up from his chest as the small, warm hand moves up and down his shaft, thumb sliding up over his head every now and again. America slips a hand between England’s thighs, massaging his balls (drawing a soft squeak from the Brit) before rubbing him up and down as well. They lie there in the soft light of morning, kissing and stroking, moaning and sighing. It isn’t enough to make either of them come, and that’s the idea. It isn’t about striving for release—it’s about being here, together, giving warmth, pleasure, love.

Neither of them decide when to get up, it just happens without need of prompting. America picks England up, bridal style this time, making him blush. America smiles down at him as he carries him to the bathroom. “If we were humans, would you marry me?”

He wouldn’t have bothered asking this of the old England. He would just get a snappy response, probably something sarcastic, or a reprimand for wasting time on nonsensical hypotheticals. But now, England’s bright eyes widen in surprise. “I . . . I think so. If you were still kind and funny and wonderful as a human.”

America laughs. It’s not an outright yes, but he doesn’t need that. “I think I’d marry you, too.”

After a sensual shower, they get dressed. (“It’s a shame to cover up those freckles,” America teases, and England giggles. “Got to leave it to the imagination!”) In the kitchen, America offers to make breakfast, but England waves it away and herds him to the table. Before America can decide if he wants waffles or French toast, his phone chimes. A text from Canada.

**How is England?**

America wants to say something like _What am I, chopped liver?_ but he fears the toneless text will betray him and make Canada feel bad. If there’s one nation America hates upsetting, it’s Canada. (England too, obviously, but that’s not nearly as avoidable.)

**He’s a lot better now kind of a long story**

England is watching him expectantly. America gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Canada’s texting me.”

“Canada?” England smiles fondly. “Tell him I said hello.”

Another message pops up before he can start to pass on the greeting.

**You can tell me in a few minutes cuz France and I are taking a taxi from the airport. We want to cheer England up. Unless you think it’s a bad idea?**

America looks up at England. “Two questions. One: What do you think about making a pancake breakfast?”

England taps his chin and purses his lips, feigning deep thought. “I think pancakes are lovely and I’d love to make some for you.”

“Awesome. Two: What do you think about France and Canada joining us?”

England’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Of course! I’d love that! They’re coming here?”

America grins. “Yep, they’re on their way as we speak. But there’s no rush, they won’t mind waiting. They just wanna hang out with us.”

“Okay! I’ll mix up the batter! Oh, and I’ll set the table— _oh!_ I hope they’ll try some birthday cake, I’ll get it out for dessert!”

America watches England bustle around like a puppy excited for walkies before looking back down at his phone.

**All systems are go. You guys are in for a surprise :)**

By the time the door gets knocked on, America is enjoying a plate of fluffy pancakes. He starts to get up, but England scurries out of the kitchen. “Oh, don’t get up, I’ll get the door!” America obeys, grinning to himself as he listens to England cheerily greet their guests. “Hello! Come in, come in, the pancakes are ready! And I made some crepes for you, France, I don’t know what your favorite kind is, but all I had was strawberries, I hope that’s okay!”

England leads the way into the kitchen; America can’t hold back a huge laugh at the matching wide-eyed, slack-jawed faces of France and Canada. England shows them to their chairs, happy as a clam. “What would you like to drink? Water, milk, wine? Oh, there’s soda, too, and coffee. Or tea!”

“Um.” Canada looks from England to America and back again. “I’ll just have some water.”

France doesn’t look away from England. “What is going on?”

England giggles. “We’re having breakfast, silly!”

France jerks back in his chair as if confronted by a monster. Now he looks at America, with eyes about to pop out of his head. “ _What_ _is going on_?”

America struggles to stifle more laughter. “Well, tell him what you want to drink, first.”

“Alcohol.” France glances at England. “Red wine. _S’il vous plaît_.” Back to America. “This is the fifth of July, not the first of April, Amérique.”

“It’s not a joke. This is all real,” America says. “No one’s pretending—”

A clatter behind him; he turns to see England stooping to pick up a knife he dropped. “Oops! Clumsy me! Do you want some cake now, America?”

“Yes, please,” America replies, smiling. To his tablemates, he says, “It was a little magick mishap. A spell got screwed up, and this is the new Iggy. New and Improved, right?”

England sets a plate of cake in front of him, practically glowing with happiness. “That’s right!”

Canada is starting to smile, but France still looks borderline disturbed. “Are you going to change back?”

England rests a hand on America’s shoulder and smiles down at him. “I think we like it better when I’m like this. Don’t you like it, France?”

France takes a slow sip of wine, brow furrowed. “I suppose . . .”

England stares at him. It’s only a split second, but something flashes in those blue eyes, something like a warning, and his smile goes tense, strained. It’s a look that reminds America of Russia, and not in a good way (if there is a good way to be reminded of Russia).

France’s confusion morphs to concern. “I didn’t offend you, did I?”

America and Canada both look to England, anxious for his reaction. The old England would never have to be asked if he was offended or not; he always made it abundantly clear. But this new England shakes his head slowly, slowly—then tips his head to the side, eyes squinty, grinning cheerfully. “Nope! Would you like some cake to go with your crepes? And you, Canada?”

 _There, we’re all good._ America takes another delicious bite of cake, relieved and eager to get back into the swing of things. “You guys gotta try some, it’s freakin’ awesome.”

France and Canada exchange a quick nervous look, but they succumb to the pink cake. Now Canada really smiles, and even France’s eyelids droop a little as he savors the sweetness of the frosting. America sees England beaming by the sink and feels so proud of him. He scoops up the last bite of cake and stands, gently feeding it to his boyfriend. England chews, swallows, then reaches up and pulls America down for the sweetest kiss he’s ever had. America takes his hand and lifts it above their heads, twirling England as if they’re dancing. The freckled nation’s giggles are infectious; soon America is twirling Canada too, and France is pretending to waltz with his glass of wine, and America blasts glam rock and bro-country and bal-musette, and they’re all dancing and laughing. _This is what I wanted,_ America thinks, joy spreading his lips into a grin nearly too wide for his face. _Family, friends. Happy times._

The atmosphere keeps its friendly, blissful vibes until they decide to watch a movie. England prances off to make “Popcorn!” and America is about to sit down beside Canada when France beckons him from the living room doorway. America joins France out in the hallway and asks, “What’s up?”

France crosses his arms over his chest—not grumpily, more like he’s hugging himself from discomfort. “Does this not feel strange to you?”

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what he’s talking about. “It was a little weird at first, sure, but mostly just ’cause he looks different. I don’t mind that he acts different now. He’s happy, happier than I’ve seen him in a really long time—maybe ever. That’s what matters, right? Being happy?”

France raises a hand to twirl a blond lock of hair around his finger, a nervous habit America only knows about because England once pointed it out to him. “Being happy is important, _oui_ , but he is just so different . . . He does not even seem like England anymore. What if he didn’t mean to change himself so much? The spell was an accident, was it not? What if he lost himself?”

This gives America pause. What if the old England wants to come back, but he can’t because he changed himself? The concept twists in America’s brain. England is the one who likes toying with philosophy and paradoxes, not him. Old England can’t want to come back, because he’s gone. If this new England is content with his existence, surely the old England is irrelevant? Without inserting himself into England’s mind, there’s no way to tell what’s truly going on in there.

“I never thought about that,” America replies, “but I still say happiness is the most important thing. If England wanted to change back, I’d be helping him do that however I can. But as far as I know, he likes being like this. And, to be honest, I like him like this too. Isn’t it nice to see him smile?”

France’s nod comes slow, uncertain. “ _Oui_ . . . if it is him.”

Just then, England steps out of the kitchen with a huge bowl of popcorn in his hands. “Oh! Hi! The popcorn is ready, I made it extra buttery for you, America!” Delayed, he takes in their serious expressions and asks, “Is something wrong?”

America smiles reassuringly. “Nope, not at all. Thanks for the popcorn, babe.” He leans to give him a kiss, then tosses a tiny, crunchy cloud of buttery goodness into his mouth. “C’mon, Canada’s probably lonely in there. Unless you had something else to say, France?”

The frog looks at them both so long America wonders if there’s something on his face. Then France shakes his head in defeat. “ _Non_ , I’ll just have to get over it. You know how it is in my country. We protest everything. But I guess some things cannot be changed.” He gives a delicate shrug, graceful as always, and America is astounded by how melancholy that simple gesture is.

 _I know how you feel,_ America will tell him later. _I miss the old England, too. Some parts of him._

(Maybe he’ll leave out that last bit.)

America sits in the middle of the sofa, his arms around England and Canada’s shoulders. They offer to squeeze France on as well, but he politely rejects the offer and instead sits off to the side, in a rocking chair England used to sit in to do his needlework. And even while America and England and Canada joke about how a school with moving staircases would never pass safety codes in any of their countries, America glimpses France watching England out of the corner of his eye, suspicious as if at any moment England might pull off a mask and reveal a bloodthirsty monster underneath.


	5. Barflies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got kinda lopsided, but what can I say—those 2P gents are just too much fun n.n

UNITED KINGDOM 

“America, stop driving so fast!”

England hears Canada’s call through the open rear window of the pickup truck just as America cranks the steering wheel to cut through an intersection; the momentum has England slamming into France, who in turn is slammed against the passenger-side door. England rights himself quickly and smacks America’s shoulder. “Are you mad?! Stop laughing like a maniac and drive properly!”

America grins, cigarette in his free hand, because of course he’s only driving with one hand. “What’re we gonna do, die?” He looks over his sunglasses, into the rearview mirror. “Still aboard, Cancan?”

There’s no response, so England twists around to look through the back window. The wind is louder than the truck’s engine, and the glass is almost as filthy as the rest of the vehicle, but he can make out Canada sprawled back there on the truck bed, using a spare tire as a pillow. England hasn’t seen such blatant disregard for common conduct and personal safety since war times, but he can’t say he minds it in this situation. It isn’t hurting anyone, after all. It could actually—almost—be considered . . . well, fun.

“He’s still on.” England turns around and notices France still leaning against the door as if stuck there. “Are you alright, frog?”

France’s eyes slowly shift to England in a sidelong stare. Monotone, he replies, “Never better.”

England straightens his borrowed jacket. It’s a bit bulky, and the leather is worn smooth in places, but it fits well enough. “Are you always like this? Bursting with excitement and passion?”

France draws from his cigarette for so long England thinks he might burn the whole thing to ash, then exhales out enough smoke to fill the cab and says, “Different . . .”

England raises his eyebrows as the pause lengthens. “Different?”

“. . . with you here.”

“Oh.” England reaches out to turn the air conditioning on in an attempt to hide his disappointment. Of course, France is probably like this because he misses the England he knows. He’s probably making everyone so happy in England’s reality—while England drags everyone in this alternate space down.

“AC don’t work,” America remarks, flicking the vents shut. “Just spits hot air. Like Canada.”

“I heard that,” comes the call behind them, though not particularly bothered.

“Meant ya to,” America shouts, over the wind, then says at a more respectable volume, “Yep, ol’ France is a lot livelier with you here, dollface.”

England stares, certain he’s heard wrong. “I beg your pardon?”

But his words are lost under the horn of a passing car, someone speeding even faster than the truck is. America honks his horn right back at them, jamming a middle finger out the window. “LEARN TO DRIVE, DIPSHIT!” Then he takes a drag and asks, “Say somethin’, limey?”

 _No need for manners here._ “I asked what the bloody hell you’re on about.”

“What, with France, ya mean? Listen, he might look like he has no pulse right now, but usually he’s even worse. Ain’t that right, Froggy? Say _oui_ _oui_.”

A glacier could pass by in the time it takes for France to sigh out, “ _Oui_.”

America nods eagerly at the long-haired nation, forcing England to watch the road. “Now the other one.”

France stays silent, gaze drifting, and Canada calls, “Be happy you got the one out of him!”

But America keeps waiting, and the truck begins to drift toward the white line. England might be tempted by hedonism, but he has to draw the line at utter stupidity. “Oh, just say it, France, before he sends us off the road.” A thought springs to mind. “Unless you actually want us to crash and die?”

France rests his head against the glass, gazing outside with longing in his heavy lidded eyes. “ _Oui_.”

 _Well, that’s hopeful._ He’ll need to ask about that concerning response, but first things first. England reaches around to tug America by the ear. “Eyes. On. The. Road.”

“Oh, yes, _Mother_.” America’s laugh draws a rough, smoky cough from his chest. “Hell are you, the British nanny from hell?”

England opens his mouth to protest, but decides not to. It’s not terribly inaccurate, all things considered. “If I’m going to die,” he says, “I’d rather do it with a cuppa tea in my hand.”

“Oh shit, we already went by Tim Horton’s. You want me to go back?”

“We’re on a highway!”

“So? U-turn ain’t nothin’.”

England shakes his head, trying his best to stifle exasperated laughter. His America and this dark one have that in common: they just never quit. “We can just stop on the way back. It’s no big deal.” That little phrase gives him pause. When was the last time he said that? He can’t recall. But he knows the last time America said it, and France, and Canada. They’ve all said it to him, multiple times, some gentler than others. _Am I always making mountains out of molehills? Have I really become that person?_ He exhales slowly. _No more._

No more bitterness. No more pettiness.

“Whatever you say, dolly.” America tosses the stub of his cigarette out the window and rests his hand on England’s knee. “Whatever you say.”

For the rest of the drive, England looks out the windows with France. Normally he would admire the beautiful countryside of Canada, but this landscape is just as different as the man himself. All along the highway, vast expanses of naked earth stretch out, stripped of their trees and flora. There are trees in the urban areas, but none out here, where you’d expect them to be. England knows from his own reality that Canada’s people have been clearing forests and shipping the wood off to other countries (America, England, and France are guilty) but he’s never seen anything this bad. Have they not even bothered replacing any trees? Or were they all taken in a hurry, in an emergency . . . like after a city had been bombed. Or more than one city. _Oh, poor Europe._ England will always be on the outskirts, but he still sympathizes. And empathizes, half the time. His island is often close enough for splash damage.

Eventually they turn down a long dirt road. The houses out here are nothing impressive; they all have overgrown gardens littered with old buckets and coils of hose and retired lawn tractors. It sort of reminds England of West Country. The type of place where a living is made outdoors, where Wellingtons are worn in every season, where dogs are big and hardy and made to work. The latter is proven to be true when they pull into a driveway and three huge hounds—a Rottweiler, a Dobermann and a bloody great Leonberger—come running over to jump up against the truck, barking their heads off.

“Bloody hell—will they attack us?” England asks, worried mostly for Canada. None of those creatures would have trouble jumping up into the truck bed if they wanted to.

“Nah,” America says. “Not while we’re in the rig. Hey! France, get that damn _Hund_ off the mirror.”

This is because the Rottweiler is currently trying to chew the passenger-side mirror off. France is still in the slow process of sitting up straight (the dogs bouncing off his window facilitated a posture shift) and he gives America a blander look than usual. “ _Ce n’est pas mon miroir_.”

America shakes his head. “People like you are the reason the unemployment rate is so high.” He presses a button to roll down the window and tosses an empty paper coffee cup at the dog. “There, eat that instead, goes down easier than glass.” The Rottweiler drops out of sight to presumably destroy the cup, and America rolls his own window down. Blaring the horn, he stands up with his upper half out the window, and England finds himself staring at the two centimeters of tan skin revealed where his muscle shirt has ridden up. That treasure trail of dark hair . . . England swallows a smile. _X marks the spot. I don’t suppose there’s any rush to open the rift. It doesn’t have to happen tonight. I wonder what we’ll do._ The thought has anticipation tightening his thighs, but he wills it away. _Later._

The front door of the house swings open, revealing a lady in a soft pink dress. She’s the sort of girl England once went after: petite, cute nose, modest clothes with a big bow in her rose-gold hair. Her eyes are a bit strange—red, but not like America’s or Prussia’s, more on the pink side—but she’s still pretty. England hasn’t had a woman in so long he almost forgets what they’re like in bed. He tends to stick to males only when the only things available for pleasure are a computer screen and his hand. Women make so much _noise_ in porn, shrieking like banshees. Quite unappealing. (Although, England knows some _bean sidhe_ , and they’re rather pleasant to talk to, so long as you don’t mention death.)

“Hungary!” shouts America. “You wanna do us a favor and get these dogs off our ass?”

“Oh, hello, America,” she says, waving cheerfully, then puts her finger and thumb into her mouth to whistle. She gives some sort of order in German, and the dogs fall silent, trotting round the corner of the house. “There you go! I’ll be inside!” And the door closes once more.

“Thank you, Hungary!” America thumps back down onto the seat and smiles at England. “Let’s go, Mr. Magician.”

England tries to meet his gaze, but all he can see is his warped reflection in the lenses of the sunglasses. “After you.”

America opens the driver-side door and hops out, slams a hand against the side of the truck. “Comin’ with, Canada? Won’t bother askin’ France.”

England glaces back at France as he’s climbing out, but the long-haired nation appears to be comatose. _I’ll take that as a no, then._ He closes the door and looks at Canada, who is sitting up and scowling at the big house before them.

“No, I’ll stay out here,” Canada says. “If I go in there, it’ll just be a fight.”

America shrugs. “Suit yourself. We’ll go visit the Germaniacs without ya, then. C’mon, Princess.” He puts an arm around England’s shoulders and herds him along.

England shrugs off the arm. “Ugh. Honestly. Anything but Princess.”

America quirks an eyebrow. “Little touchy. Soft spot?”

“Oh, that wasn’t even close to touchy, mate.” England gives him a sidelong smirk. “And no, not soft, it’s just a tad overdone, don’t you think?”

America’s smile is a bit strange, almost wider than it should be. “You’re _critiquing_ my pet names now?”

“Somebody has to. What’s wrong with your face? Apart from it being attached to you, of course.”

“Oho, is that how it’s gonna be?” America gives him a playful shove with his elbow. “Nothin’ wrong with me. Nothin’ wrong with you, either, now. That’s why I was smilin’.”

England stumbles at the shove—alternate reality or not, a push from a nation that big isn’t a laughing matter—but he stays upright. “What do you mean, _now_? Was there something wrong with me before?”

America stops walking to take off his sunglasses, setting them on top of his head. There’s a serious light in his eyes, an expression England hasn’t seen before. It’s a man-to-man sort of look, and the compassion in it—coming from a man like this—is breathtaking. “You know what I mean,” he says, voice a low, raspy murmur. “You’re happier now. Right? You’re different. Or . . .” He looks England up and down, but not in a sexual way, for once; when his gaze meets England’s again, it’s actually hopeful. “Gettin’ there?”

At first, England is so startled, he can’t speak. He thought he was just a lay, an an inconvenience, for this dark America. But— _You’re happier now_? Why would he care about England’s happiness? England is, for all intents and purposes, a stranger. Granted, America is most likely biased by the England that he knows. England is definitely biased, for better or worse, by his own America. So that’s fair, to be expected. But these words are so personal, so intimate. The words of a friend, a loved one. They just met, but . . . is it possible that America _cares_ about England?

Anything is possible. Evidently.

England knows what he’s expected to do know. Get all flustered, respond snappishly, but secretly appreciate and cherish the kindness given to him. _Let’s skip that. Just this once._ He lets a smile, a genuine smile, tug at his lips and tells America, “Yes, I do believe I’m on my way to happiness. Thank you for noticing.” He gives America’s side a nudge that winds up more affectionate than he intended; he doesn’t have the strength to push America over. _But that’s alright._ “And for helping.”

America’s arm goes back around England’s shoulders, and his smile is closer to a smirk, which is to say, back to normal. “Thank me when it’s over, Queenie.”

England wants say _I think I prefer Princess to Queenie_ but then America is opening the door and they’re stepping inside and the time for banter is over.

The interior here is much like Canada’s house, shabby and masculine and even dirtier than Canada’s place with the dust and dog hair collecting in the corners. Hungary stands with an arm over her stomach, the other lifted to twirl her hair nervously. England studies her, but he can’t tell if it’s genuine or if she’s just being coy. She notices him staring and tilts her head to one side. “You look different, England.”

England glances at America, unsure what their cover story is. But America has slipped into a totally carefree persona, and he curls his lips seductively around his words. “Just a magick issue, dollface, nothin’ to worry your pretty little head about.”

England catches himself thinking, _I thought I was the doll._ Then he gives his brain a good, solid smack. _Get a bloody grip._

“We’re here to see Austria,” says America. “He here?”

“Yes, he’s downstairs,” Hungary replies, fretful. “But he won’t be happy to see you.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I ain’t head over heels about layin’ eyes on him, either.” He winks at her. “I take it the other folks ain’t here?”

“No, they went out—”

“Good.” America leans down so the tip of his nose almost brushes hers. “And you’re gonna let us know if they happen to show up. Think you can do that?”

Two bright pink spots bloom on her cheeks, and she nods vehemently.

America grins at her, straightening. “Thank you, baby.” He walks away without another word, just expecting England to follow him. England wants to grumble about it, but he’s done the same thing before, so he just gives the swooning Hungary a nod and follows after America.

Down a rickety staircase they go. It’s dark down here, the air thick with incense. There’s something floating over there, a reddish glow among the shadows—no, it’s a scarlet curtain with light on the other side. England glances at America, who says, “Got visitors, _Ass_ tria.”

A thin, eerie chuckle, followed by a brittle voice saying, “I hope your neighbor isn’t with you, America.”

“Nope, just England. Got a special request for ya. We need a . . . what was it?”

“We need to do a ritual to open a rift,” England says, voice raised a little to address the man behind the curtain. “I can do it myself, I just need some supplies.”

A shadow moves behind the curtain, then a pale hand wraps around it (England notes the black nail polish) and tugs it aside to reveal Austria. He looks like the devil in his red and black suit; the red candle behind him gives a rather malevolent aura. His hair is like America’s, dark with a red tinge, and his eyes are bright red too. _What is it with this reality and red?_ Austria adjusts his pince-nez and squints at England; then a smile spreads like an unfurling snake, complete with pointed teeth. “Well, well, what’s happened to you, sugar?”

England crosses his arms over his chest, a serious pose to hide the amusement rising inside him. Of all the alternates so far, this one is definitely the most outlandish. _If only Austria could see this beast._ “I’m from another reality. My counterpart and I seem to have switched places. As I said, I need some things for the ritual to get us back. Do you have quartz?”

Austria’s eyes slither down England’s body, then back up again. “Yes, I do. But you’ll need more than that. Let me see what I can spare. Just a moment.” He winks at them, then vanishes through a doorway strung with long strands of beads. England steps over to admire the set-up; Austria has a round oak table with four chairs around it (for the cardinal directions) and a crystal ball in the center. England leans closer to it, watching the fire reflect off the clouded glass. He hasn’t scried in a very, very long time, but he could probably do it now if he tried. Just a matter of allowing the eyes to unfocus, seeing not what’s there, but what’s beyond it, letting all else fall away—

“Hey.” America waves a hand in front of his face. “Snap out of it.”

“Nngh.” England blinks until his eyes have focused again. “Be careful when you do that. A trance is nothing to play at. You could seriously harm someone if you ‘snap’ them out of it.” He puts finger-quotes around the word. “You need to be more gradual about it.”

America puts his hands into his pockets, bemused. “How’s it gonna hurt ’em? I didn’t even touch ya.”

“Not physically hurt. Spiritually.”

America snorts.

England bristles. “Look here, it’s not funny. I don’t see how you can doubt the existence of magick, considering the fact that I’m _right here_ and I couldn’t have come here without some ethereal power at play.”

“I don’t doubt it.” America shrugs, unperturbed. “I just don’t believe in that soul/aura/spirit garbage.”

England wonders what his America believes in. Have they really never talked about it? The idea frightens him. Even if they are immortal, there are so many conversations England wants to have with America. There are so many things that need to be said, to America and Canada and France, before the end. England just hopes he’ll be able to get the words out.

Austria returns with a large paper bag, which he offers to England. “There you go, angel. You’re sure you can put it together all by yourself? It’s pretty complicated, you know, hard work for a juicy little lime.” He winks again, with a crocodile smile.

England pauses in checking that it’s all there (it is, even the tiny vials of blood) to look up at Austria. England can’t see his own face, but he knows what it looks like; he remembers the delicious feeling of this expression. This is the look that made enemy pirates pause in drawing their swords. A look not of fury, but of the point precisely before it, just begging the receiver for one final push over the edge.

“First of all,” England says, “I have never been, am currently not, and will never be sweet, especially not to you, so do not call me _sugar._ I am also the farthest thing from an angel you’re likely to meet, and I’m well aware that you do dealings with demons. So do I. They’ve learned a lot from me.” He steps forward, close enough that he has to tip his head back to glare up at Austria. “I appreciate the assistance, but that is the only thing I appreciate. You’ve only just met me, and yet you’re treating me like I’m unintelligent. Just for the record, I’m not. I would advise against being so patronizing to people in the future, because they just might do what I’d like to do to you.”

For a second, Austria’s eyes widen in surprise. But then they narrow again, with lust and arrogance, and Austria leans down enough that his lips nearly brush England’s. “Aren’t we sexy when we’re mad,” he says. “There’s a lot I’d like to do to you, as well. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

Without hesitation, England grabs Austria by the ridiculous high collar and violently escorts him to the floor. Austria is surprisingly easy to put down; despite being taller than the one England knows, he’s not notably muscular. England pushes his heel down on the other nation’s sternum. Austria stares up at him, pince-nez knocked crooked, face at last wiped clean of conceit.

“Now,” England says. “Perhaps what we needed was a change of angle. Tell me: do I look like I need your help?”

 

“What did the bastard say to that?” Canada demands, enthralled by the story.

America, leaned back in the corner of the booth with his arm behind England’s shoulders, grins and says, “You shoulda seen his face. Goddamn priceless.”

“It wasn’t nearly as exciting as you lot are making it out to be,” England says, though he quite likes being the hero of a story for once. (A certain someone usually snatches that role from everyone else.)

“You told off the guy who’s been talkin’ shit behind our backs since we beat him in the war, and that’s worth a toast,” Canada says, raising his huge glass of beer.

America follows suit with his bourbon, and even France (sitting across the table from England, beside Canada) lifts his glass of absinthe a few inches off the tabletop. England smiles at them and clinks his glass against theirs, then takes a dainty sip of his gin. When he looks up again, America and Canada are giving him incredulous looks.

“. . . What?” England asks.

“C’mon,” America says. “Chug it.”

“Brits are supposed to be crazy drinkers, ain’t they?” Canada glances at France, who shrugs blandly. “Our old England never drank, so let’s see it.”

 _I’m not drinking for your entertainment. What do you take me for, a performing bear?_ England listens to the response he would have given back home, then considers the pirate days, necking enough spirits to kill a horse while his crew cheered him on. He prefers the idea of glory to irritability, so he tips his head back and swallows until his glass is empty and liquid fire roars inside him. _Oh, bloody hell. Yes._

It has been too long.

America and Canada are clapping, but England thumps his empty glass down on the tabletop and says thickly, “No, don’t clap yet. Get me more.” Then he remembers he’s on the outside of the booth with France, so he gets up, steadies himself against the table, and says, “I’ll get it. Want more—?” He squints at their glasses. The gin has formed a lovely cloud within his brain. “Beer?”

America and Canada exchange a glance, then America replies in amusement, “Nah, we’re good for now. Thanks, doll.”

England salutes them—did he actually do that? _What a prat._ He laughs at himself on the way to the bar, where he gets himself another glass and a bottle of gin. The excellent thing about drinking as a country is that alcohol poisoning is impossible, so there’s nothing boring like that to end the party. England had far more tolerance when he was the Empire—how ironic—but now that he’s just a portion of an island, the liquor hits a lot harder and a lot faster. Not that he notices. He’s smashed!

Speaking of _smash._

England whirls around at the sound of the door slamming. Standing at the entrance are two men England recognizes immediately, despite their altered appearances and his gin-clouded vision. The taller one is dark, even darker than America, with black hair and a silvery forelock. The shorter is pale, nearly translucent, a spirit with wispy white hair down to his shoulders. Both halves of this yin-and-yang have red eyes, and England wonders if the Prussia he knows would be jealous or glad that there are so many alternate nations who share his eye color. Right now, of course, Prussia would probably be too distracted by the identity of these intruders, because they are indeed an alternate Prussia and Spain.

They head straight for England’s table.

England follows, but he has enough wherewithal to hang back. (For the time being.)

Prussia looms in silence—so strange to see him without a smile—but Spain rests his hands on the tabletop and lets his gaze travel over the three seated nations. “Enjoying yourselves, _coños_?” he asks, his voice like grinding shards of glass. “I hear you and Austria had a little _conflicto_ earlier.”

Canada sneers. “Yeah, I bet he bawled to you as soon as you walked in the door.”

America is still lounging in the corner of the booth, but his shoulders are tense. “Listen, there was no bloodshed. No big deal. Let’s just enjoy our alcoholic beverages. We’ll sit here, and you and your ghost friend can go sit somewhere else and drink beer and a Latini or whatever you drink.”

Spain’s lip curls. “No big deal? Austria thought it was a big deal. You think we have stopped defending him? Your little _manada_ defend each other. If someone tossed your beloved _cadáver francés_ around, you wouldn’t be after who did it?”

America sits up and Canada slams a fist down on the tabletop, but before either of them can speak, France himself shrugs one shoulder and says, “It is different. Austria cannot fight his own battles. If he could, perhaps you would not have lost the war.”

America throws his head back to laugh, and Canada claps his huge hands so loudly that everyone who wasn’t already looking over from the fist-slamming now has their full attention on the tension rising around the back booth.

Spain glares at them all, eyes smoldering, then reaches out toward France—and like a striking viper, America grasps the bronze wrist in a vice-like grip and growls, “Don’t even fuckin’ think about it.”

Prussia grabs a fistful of America’s muscle shirt, but before he can hook the other fist into his face, England steps up behind him and smashes the gin bottle over the platinum blond head. The next thing England knows, he’s being lifted up and thrown down on top of the table. Glass cracks, alcohol goes everywhere, and England blearily sees America’s face. The red eyes gauge him briefly for injury, then shift to Spain and Prussia, glinting dangerously. “Alright. Now you pissed me off.”

England struggles to sit up, winded from the impact (though at least it knocked the gin-cloud out of his head), and blinks in surprise at a hand being offered. France stands beside the booth, having moved out of the way so that Canada could attack Prussia. His face is still blank, but his eyes are brighter than England has seen them. England takes the hand, and France helps him down off the table, murmuring, “We will go outside.”

England jumps out of the way; Spain’s head bounces off the edge of the table. America follows after him, pounding his rib cage. Prussia has his arms locked around Canada’s neck. England is torn between envy—wanting to dive in and fight like them—and morbid curiosity—wanting to watch these muscular men clobber each other—and logic—wanting to listen to France. After a moment’s hesitation, he bows to logic. He isn’t strong enough to hold his own against those two, and the barkeep is shouting for a bouncer, so they might as well just leave.

When America and Canada come out—or get tossed out, rather—they have the makings of black eyes, America’s lip is split, and Canada’s nose is gushing blood. Canada climbs onto the bed of the truck, and America heaves himself up into the driver’s seat. He smirks at England, the same breathless satisfaction that a man would have after nice, rough sex. “Y’alright, doll? Or, no, guess I shouldn’t call ya that, huh?”

England shakes his head, reaching into France’s pocket for a cigarette, then into America’s for a lighter. He blows a pair of smoke rings and says, “Ah, no worries, mate. You’ve got permission.”

America grins now, wide and bright, just like the other America. “Glad to hear it.” He unfolds the earpieces of his sunglasses, then slips them onto England’s face and puts on a surprisingly good posh accent to ask, “Shall we go, hell’s angel?”

England doesn’t bother considering what he would have done. He just smiles and says, “We shall.”

 

UNITED STATES 

“America, stop driving so slow.”

America rolls his eyes, but good-naturedly, at Canada’s backseat driving. “I’ll drive as slow as I have to, Can. It’s a minor miracle I remembered which side the steering wheel was on.” No matter how many visits he has in the UK, America doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to driving on the wrong side. ( _It’s not wrong just because it’s different from the way you do it, America,_ England once snapped. _Kinda ironic, coming from a king of assimilation,_ America had pointed out. That argument lasted two hours.)

In the passenger seat, England smiles encouragingly. “There’s no rush, love.”

America returns the smile, warmed. It reminds him of the colony days, when England was the supportive father figure, guiding him and teaching him and only getting angry when America did something dangerous. Remembering that England, his loving green gaze always the sun America looked up to, it’s sort of sad to see this new England sitting at his side. It feels like he’s leaving the old England behind, abandoning him. _He’s happy this way,_ America tells himself. _And I’m not sad about it, either. England’s the one who gets sentimental about the past, not me. I’m not an old man yet._

Thankfully, it’s a short drive to the pub, and America manages not to run over any curbs along the way. It was France’s idea to go out for drinks after the movie ended, and America jumped on the idea. He can’t remember the last time the four of them enjoyed an evening out together, and—though he’s hiding it well, in his opinion—he’s bursting with excitement.

They get a table in the middle of the room, because the majority of the wall seats are taken. (People are way too shy and self-conscious, in America’s opinion. But he supposes there’s a certain confidence that comes with being essentially immortal, so perhaps he’s a tad biased.) France offers to get their drinks, and after America and Canada both ask for beer, they all look expectantly to England, who seems surprised to be asked. “Oh, I’ll just have tea, please.”

 _“What?”_ America and Canada say in unison, the former far more discombobulated than the latter.

 _“Excusez-moi?”_ France asks, pretty much simultaneous too but a bit more polite.

England smiles uncertainly. “I don’t drink.”

America was amused when England claimed not to swear, but claiming not to drink? That’s so absurd it’s almost cause for concern. He glances at Canada, who’s leaning away slightly, a nervous light in his eyes. France is again staring at England like he’s some kind of imposter. America is torn between indignance at their intolerance of the new England and a low-creeping suspicion that his acceptance of the freckled nation is in the minority for a reason.

“You’ve always drank,” America says, trying to sound normal. “Like, forever. You love drinking.”

“Oh. Right.” England chuckles, giving his head a gentle, comical smack. “Silly me. But, um.” He bites his bottom lip, looking up at France with an absolutely precious, shy puppy dog face. “Could I just have some tea? Pretty please?” He stretches his arms out to grab his knees, chin ducked, the pose of a shy schoolgirl. “I-I don’t want to cause too much of a fuss . . .”

“You’re not causing a fuss,” Canada assures with a gentle smile, despite the misgiving lingering in his violet gaze. Canada is the expert in fuss determination, because he spends the majority of his time bending over backward to avoid causing them himself.

England gives Canada a grateful smile, then looks back to France, but by that time the frog is already gone, headed for the bar. England and Canada didn’t see his look, because it was only for America. It was a look that says, _I don’t like this. I don’t trust him. And now you see why._

And, though he really doesn’t want to, America is beginning to see it. This England is so, so different, but America hadn’t considered that his memories were different. After all, why would they be? Why wouldn’t this England be the same mind, just with a different outlook, a cheerier disposition? But then, is that even possible? Can a spell change personality and appearance, yet maintain the core of the person? Or is it a complete system refresh? And how much of a person is in the mind, anyhow? Is there a soul, some element that goes beyond the physical, or is it all in the brain? God, America doesn’t know! He’s not the philosopher! He’s just the hero!

 _I wish,_ America catches himself thinking, _England was here._

Then he could just ask him. Simple.

But, of course, England is here, sitting right next to him and chatting to Canada about how scatterbrained older nations can be. Too many memories to keep track of, he claims. And Canada nods along with him, like Canada always did. Loyal without question to his sire. (America wonders, on occasion, what would have happened if his devotion to England had been as limitless as Canada’s. Would he have been granted freedom eventually, like Canada had? Or, unlikely and yet chilling to consider, would he remain the son, the scion, the heir to an empire? America never wanted an inheritance of bloodshed, but he got one anyway, in the end.)

 _Damn it. I don’t know anything about magick,_ he laments internally. _This long with England, and I never asked about spells? Not even once? He taught me everything else, he could have taught me about magick. I bet he would have, too. But I never showed an interest._ Guilt pricks him, but doesn’t draw blood. _I never_ had _an interest. Until now._

America closes his eyes, blocking out England and Canada’s conversation, tuning out the din of the pub, and tries his very hardest to sort the lines of thought in his mind. As soon as he begins, he knows it’s a hopeless task. It’s like untangling earbuds—the harder he tries, the tighter the knot gets. If this England is so different, if he doesn’t remember who he once was . . . could that mean . . . maybe he . . .

“America?” England asks, startling his eyes open. England’s freckled fingers are light on America’s hand. “You look upset, love. Is everything alright?”

America forces a big smile. “Yeah, yeah, of course. I’m fine and dandy, just—leftover jet lag, maybe. Or homesickness. This little island is a far cry from North America. No offense, of course.”

Canada is nodding empathetically. “It’s true. When I stepped off the plane, it felt like I might walk right off into the ocean if I wasn’t careful.”

America gently nudges Canada’s side with his elbow. “Brag about it, second-biggest nation.”

Canada sticks his tongue out teasingly, then smiles. “You’re not too far behind, third-biggest nation.”

England stretches to give them both a kiss on the cheek. “Oh, I love you both. My big strong lads!”

Canada takes England’s hand to give it a squeeze. After bizarre behavior all day, a public declaration of love and show of affection is no longer worthy of astonishment. And America would be all smiles and hugs too, if he wasn’t now aware of . . . this. This way England has of making everything so lovely, of being so adorable, of surrounding everyone in warm cozy vibes—it’s like sinking into a warm bath. Or, a more apt comparison—it’s like an ant drawn to honey, then sinking in until it’s unable to free itself. Canada, the softest one, the one who endeavors to see the best in people, is blinded by it. America was too, for a while. But now he sees. And it doesn’t mean that he’s stopped trusting England, not at all. But he’ll watch him closely now, like France. He’ll be careful about it, as careful as he can be. _Look at this, back to being careful around Iggy. The chill didn’t last very long, huh?_ But this is different than before. Before, he didn’t want to upset England because he didn’t want to argue with him, because he didn’t want to worsen the fractures in his heart. Now, he doesn’t want to upset him because he—the United States of America—has been made into an ant.

And, if he gives it the chance, that honey will drown him without a second thought.


	6. On Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay; exams this way come. Also, POV cheat for dramatic effect! Lock me up, lads! :P

UNITED STATES 

“Are you okay?”

America, bent over the bathroom sink, pauses in brushing his teeth to look in the mirror. England is standing naked behind him, framed in the doorway like those old paintings of Greek women. One ankle crossed behind the other, a hesitant hand resting lightly on the doorjamb, all of him pale and glowing except for the hint of a shadow beneath the curve of his belly. England has already had his shower, and though he wanted America to join him, America politely declined, feigning a headache. _I don’t think the hot water will make it better._ It came out offhand, and was a pretty blatant lie in retrospect, but England didn’t call him on it, just offered to get him some aspirin, which America, again, politely declined.

America spits out his mouthful of toothpaste and replies, “Yup, I’m great.”

England gives a concerned pout. “But you’ve been quiet since we got drinks.”

He’s not wrong. America has been speaking in single-sentences since the intrusive, questioning thoughts came into his mind at the bar. Every smile from England has America asking himself, _Is that real?_ Every little kindness has his hackles rising. Is he paranoid? Or is his suspicion a sign? And what about France? He’s known England since they were children; he probably knows him better than America does. If he thinks there’s something wrong with this England, should America believe him?

England sighs softly. “You have the look again.”

America blinks. “What look?”

“The look that someone gets when something’s bothering them.” England steps over and touches America’s bare chest, trailing his fingers down to rest on the waistline of his pajama pants. His voice dips low: soft, sweet seduction. “Tell me what’s wrong, love. I want to make you feel better.”

America turns away to rinse the rest of the toothpaste out of his mouth. England’s fingers toy with the strings of his pants, and America feels himself stirring, but he doesn’t let the rising lust reach his brain. He wipes his face clean, slips his glasses back on, and looks down at England. He can see his profile in the mirror, and at least one half of his face looks worried. “Okay, I’m gonna . . . I’m gonna be honest, babe.” He speaks slowly, doing his best to think the words through before they find his tongue. “I’m worried about you. I know you like this new you—and don’t get me wrong, so do I—but maybe . . . I don’t know anything about magick, but I started thinking maybe it might not be healthy? I mean, you did this by accident, right? So maybe there are more effects and we just don’t realize.”

England stares at him, blank-faced, and America’s heart starts to feel sick, but then England is shaking his head with a smile. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, love. I’m alright. I would tell you if something was wrong.”

 _Would you?_ America keeps his tone light. “But if you didn’t even know about it, you couldn’t tell me, right? You never know, maybe you’ll only find out about it once it’s too late. I don’t want you to get hurt, England.”

This is true, at least. America doesn’t want anyone to get hurt, period. Unfortunately, Fate usually has different plans.

England waves the worries away with a freckled hand. “Honestly, love, it’s nothing to fret about. I should know, I’m the magician!”

The overly cheerful words in that squeaky voice would have been cute before, but now they grate in America’s brain. He called England—the old England—a magician once, and the response was pretty impolite and lengthy, but the gist was that England was a Master of Dark Arts, a Wiccan, even a wizard, but most definitely not a magician. _None of this makes sense._ America again wishes he could ask England what to do about all this. When did England ever get overwhelmed? When did he ever have trouble thinking things through? It’s the colony days all over again. England is the father, unreachable across the Atlantic, and America is the child, unable to clean up the mess.

Then, just like that, it comes to him. If he can’t ask England, he’ll go to the next best thing. “Well, just to make sure, why don’t we ask Norway to come over? He knows about magick, right?”

All hints of a smile vacate England’s face. His eyes seem at risk of popping out of his head. “Norway?” His face crumples and he hunches over, hands over his eyes as he starts to sob. “W-Why don’t you believe me? Why do you think something is wrong with me? I th-thought you loved me!”

Without thinking, America wraps his arms around England. He can’t help it; if someone is crying, the first instinct is to hug, to comfort through touch. Warmth and vanilla surrounds him as England’s arms hook around America’s sides.

“It’s okay,” America murmurs, rubbing England’s back. “You don’t have to get upset. I do—I do love you. And I do believe you. It’s okay.”

England has gone still, face turned away, cheek against America’s chest. “I don’t want anyone to come. I just want to be happy with you.”

America hesitates now, torn. He’s done this with the old England plenty of times, made the decision between letting something go and keeping everything in good humor, or pressing the issue and pissing England off. Typically, America chooses the latter, because England always taught him to stand up for himself—and when has America been shy to fight for what he believes? But this England is different. He doesn’t fight, he cries. America doesn’t want to make someone cry, especially not someone he cares about. _But do I care about this one? This New and Improved?_ England presses closer to him, his arms cinching tighter around him. And tighter.

“England,” America says, tensing, a bit of warning in his voice. England is too small to hurt America, but the fact that he’s attempting it—something is definitely, without a doubt, wrong.

Softly, England says, “I don’t want anyone to come.”

America resists the temptation to force those soft freckled arms off of him. The strength is there, so easily summoned. It would take no effort at all. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t move an inch. He just says, “No one will come.”

His tone is flat, passionless. Anyone with half a brain could tell he doesn’t agree with the words coming out of his mouth.

But England just straightens, perky and cheerful again, smiling up at America. “Oh, good! I’ll be waiting for you in bed, love.” He walks away. America doesn’t even enjoy the view of his exit, because he’s too distracted by the fact that, despite his apparent sobbing, England’s face was pale as ever, and America’s chest—where it should be wet with tears—is dry as a bone.

America finishes readying himself for bed, then sneaks into the living room, where his phone is waiting. He hasn’t called Norway in decades—their issues are so few and far between, they’re easier to just bring up at a world meeting—and it takes him a moment to find him, because America’s contacts aren’t proper and straightforward like England’s. They’re things like _Eyebrows, Maple Sugar, Frogger, Awesomesauce, Toyota._ After some scrolling, America taps _Trollface_ and holds his phone to his ear.

“ _Hallo_?”

“Oh, hey, Denmark.” America speaks in an undertone, wary of England overhearing. “You at Norway’s place?”

“Ah, Yankee Doodle.” His perpetual huge smile is audible in the words, and a comfort to hear. “Yeah, we were just about to—hey!” Muffled laughter. “I was gonna say snuggle!”

America wishes he could be amused. “I hate to interrupt, but I kinda need to talk to Norway. It’s—it’s important.”

Denmark must hear the serious tone, because he echoes it. “Sure. Here, Norge.” A second later, Norway’s voice comes through, sounding a tad ruffled but otherwise his usual solemn self. “Good evening. Is something wrong, America?”

America glances toward the bedroom door, then explains the situation as quickly and quietly as he can. He includes everything, from the failed birthday cake to the melancholy wish to the so-called magick mishap, to France’s suspicion and America’s own growing trepidation. He finishes with, “Do you think you could come here—England’s house, I mean—and sorta check him out?” _Manners, America._ “Please?”

A pause. “I will be there tomorrow, before noon. Don’t tell him.”

“Hadn’t planned on it,” America assures him. Relief swells. “Thank you, Norway.”

“You’re welcome.” Another pause. “Be careful.”

His relief goes out like a flame. “Why? Do you know what’s going on? Is it—”

“Hush,” Norway says, in the same way England used to admonish Little America. Sometimes America forgets how much older Denmark and Norway are than him, than England. “I have a feeling, but I won’t know for sure until I see him. Until then, don’t do anything to agitate him. Do you understand?”

America swallows, gaze flicking to the bedroom again. “I understand.”

“I will see you tomorrow.”

“See ya. Enjoy your snuggling.” His attempt at levity earns him only a faint snort from Norway, but he hears laughter in the background. America hangs up, wishing he could be out raising hell with Denmark and Prussia, or binging Netflix with Canada, or even just sprawling out on his own bed, in his own house, in his own country. He feels constricted, as if England’s freckled arms are still around him, squeezing, testing, searching for weakness.

 _You won’t find it._ America squares his shoulders. _I’m the United freakin’ States of America. I don’t care how cute you are, you’ll never be stronger than—_

“America?”

He jumps out of his skin, nearly dropping his phone, and whirls to see England peeking around the doorway, head tilted to the side in a mix of curiosity and concern. “What are you doing?”

America holds up his phone, smiling nervously. “Nothing, just checking my phone.”

“Oh.” England’s voice lowers, and he curls a finger to beckon America. “Come to bed. I want you.”

America’s head tells him, _Don’t. This is wrong._

Seeing the hesitation, England steps into full view, so America can see his perfect chest, his adorable belly, his beautiful thighs, and the hard cock between them, a droplet of liquid lust on the tip of its bright pink head. Slowly, England slides a hand down his chest, briefly palming a nipple before slipping lower, to trail his fingertips along his shaft—a tiny shiver goes through him at the touch—and finally find the drop of precum. He brings his hand to his lips, delicately licking each fingertip before sucking the final one into his mouth, eyes never leaving America’s.

America’s other head tells him, _Holy fuck._

“America,” England says, so low it’s barely audible, “I want you now.”

He walks to the other nation like a moth to a flame, pins him down to the mattress, fucks him with more force than he would ever consider using normally—each grunting thrust is as much an assurance to himself as a statement to England: _I am stronger. I am more powerful than you._ But England just throws his head back into the pillows, taking it all with moans and cries, and when America collapses on top of him, the smaller nation smiles over one broad shoulder. He isn’t stronger. He doesn’t have to be. He just has to be smarter, that’s all. And so far?

_It’s like taking resources from a colony._

 

UNITED KINGDOM 

“Are you okay?”

England writhes on the bed, eyes closed. “Yes, sir.”

“No, seriously. Pause. Are you okay?”

England lifts his head, twisting to look over his shoulder, confused by America’s serious tone. “Yeah, I would’ve safeworded if I wasn’t. Why?”

America is standing beside the bed, a vibrator in his hand. England is lying on his stomach, but he isn’t tied down this time; America said he wanted to see him flail around. And it’s true, England has been tossing and turning since America began the sweet torture of moving the low-set vibrator along his body, lingering at his nipples and along his groin, but never against his cock or his balls, and certainly never pushing inside him, which he’s aching for.

America’s eyebrows are drawn together. “Your back is bruised.”

England sits up, arches his back. Pain radiates from the small of his back. “It must be from being tossed onto a table.” He glances at America, whose red gaze is bright with concern. They both know that nations are supposed to heal quickly. America’s split lip was gone after twenty minutes; England’s burnt arm had healed after an hour or so. Bruises shouldn’t last this long. It’s been hours since they were at that bar.

“Perhaps it’s a side effect of changing realities,” England offers, uncertain. He has no experience with this; it’s an unexplored field. It wouldn’t be too much of a logic leap to imagine changing realities might be hard on a body . . . but if that were the case, wouldn’t he feel tired? He doesn’t. He hadn’t even noticed the pain in his back until now. It isn’t even a lot of pain, just a bit sore. Nothing serious. “I’m sure it’ll go away eventually. I don’t think a few bruises are worth any worry.”

One side of America’s mouth pulls outward, but not in a smile; he looks unconvinced. He doesn’t turn the vibrator back on, instead slapping it gently against his palm, lost in thought.

England trains his eyes on the pink plastic as if it might hypnotize him. “Since we’re paused,” he says, “I’d like to ask you a question.”

America arches an eyebrow.

“Are we going to fuck?”

America closes his hand around the vibrator. “I’m gonna fuck you with this.”

England’s cock gets just a little harder at the thought. “Yes, we discussed that earlier. But are you going to fuck me with . . . anything else?”

“Like what?”

 _So much for subtlety._ England rolls his eyes and drawls, “Your _throbbing_ manhood, what else.”

That tugs his mouth into a grin. “No dice. Sorry.”

“I—wait, what?” England backtracks, processing the rejection; he’d already been starting his response to a yes. “Why not?”

“My dick is for _my_ England, that’s why. Can’t just hand it out to anybody who wants it. Christ, there’d be no time left in the day.”

It’s matter-of-fact, humorous even, but the words still feel harsh. “You had no trouble touching mine,” he points out, sounding more bitter than he has since he first came here.

“Well, you were a good boy.” America smirks. “You deserved better than a hands-free orgasm.”

Now England feels himself blush, and his cock again pulses with arousal, but he pushes through it. “I still don’t see the difference.”

America turns the vibrator back on. “Here’s the difference.” He pushes England’s shoulder, gentle but firm, urging him onto his back. He touches the vibrator to the base of England’s shaft, and he jumps, hips lifting blindly into the sensation. “I can tie up anybody. I can spank anybody.” He traces up and down with the vibrator, circling the ridge beneath his head. England trembles, hands grasping the edges of the mattress. America leans over him, smirk widening, eyes sparkling. “I can do this to anybody. But I only fuck my little love muffin.”

England thrusts again, but America pulls the vibrator away, and without even meaning to England says, “I want it!”

America chuckles. “I know you do, doll.” He makes small circles with the tip on England’s quivering thighs. “But you can’t have it.”

And so it goes. America brings England closer and closer, reaching to pinch his nipples, teasing his foreskin, nudging the vibrator under his balls to prod mercilessly at his perineum—until he cries out. Each time he does, America pulls away. No more touch. No more sensation. First, England curses at him. Then England tries to jerk himself off, too desperate for discipline—but America grabs both wrists and ties them above his head without need for permission. By the time America has finished sliding lubed fingers in and out of England, the blond nation is openly weeping, raw, laid bare.

“Please,” he sobs. “Fuck me. _Please._ Jesus, please, just _fuck me._ _I need it_.”

America pauses, the vibrator resting between England’s cheeks. Every muscle in his body tenses, _dying_ for it. Then, at long last, America switches the vibrator to the highest setting and pushes it inside, and England is a spool of fraying thread undone, a band stretching and snapping, giving way, surrendering all, every last drop. He tips his head back, eyes squeezed shut, and keens for it. _More, more of this. Less, less of me._ There is nothing but this feeling, tight buzzing pleasure, and the longing inside him given a name, an image. Blue eyes, golden hair, his America. _America._ His heart breaks free from his chest, bleeding a rain of memories. America’s hands, his laugh, his smile. The swell of his belly peeking beneath the hem of his shirt. The little curl of hair that bounces up no matter how long you hold it down. The boy, the man, the nation. He spent so long raising him. He will spend no more time trying to tear him down. He will love him. He will go back to him, and he will love him, and _he will let himself be loved._

England only realizes he blacked out when he comes to again. He’s been untied, and he’s in America’s arms. England has questions on his tongue, but the feeling of utter, full-bodied satisfaction keeps his mouth closed. Every single nook and cranny of him has been filled with warm, cozy contentment. His head is against America’s chest, and he listens to the dark nation’s heartbeat. _Thank you_ , he wants to say. _Good night_ , as well. But his eyelids are drooping; sleep gently tugs at him. He resolves that in the morning, the first thing out of his mouth will be a word of gratitude.

Instead, it’s blood.


	7. Cuckoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When your back-and-forth structure interrupts your climax o.e" Relatable, non? Hope y'all enjoy anyways!

UNITED STATES 

_Oh, God._

Someone’s knocking on the door.

America runs a nervous hand through his hair—the extent of his hair-styling routine, on days without meetings—and leaves the bathroom. He slept in this morning, so England is in the kitchen making him brunch, even though it’s noon now so it might as well just be lunch. America pauses in the hall, peeking around the kitchen doorway. England is in there, back turned, humming cheerfully to himself as he chops up cheese for an omelette. It’s happy, domestic. America so wants to feel happy about it, to feel the adoration for this man that came so easily before. Then, right when America is about to turn away, the knife slips and slices into England’s freckled finger. America winces and rushes forward to help—but stops. England doesn’t pause in his humming or his chopping. He just continues as if nothing happened, smearing blood all over the cheese, the countertop. America’s mouth hangs open a while before he finds words.

“Uh . . . Uh, E-England, you’re bleeding . . .”

England goes silent, spine straightening. He doesn’t look back at America. He just says, voice light and faraway, “I think I heard someone at the door. Would you be a dear little chicklet and go see who it is?”

America tears his eyes away from the bloody cheese. “Uh, yeah, I’ll go check.”

“Such a good boy.” England resumes humming and chopping as America leaves the room.

Once out in the hall, he almost bursts into a sprint. _What the hell is going on? Jesus Christ!_ He hasn’t been genuinely, personally afraid in a very long time. Fear for his people, for his geographical body, sure. Fear for other countries struggling through war and tragedy. But he hasn’t felt fear for himself alone since he was just a tiny colony, worried that England would never come back for him, horrified that he would be left all by himself, forever.

 _You’re stronger than this,_ he tells himself. _You’re the hero. Heroes don’t get scared._

He takes a big breath and opens the front door.

Norway stands on the doorstep.

America’s knees actually weaken with relief. “Holy crap, dude. I could hug you right now.”

One of Norway’s eyebrows quirks. “Please don’t. May I come in?”

“Yes, yeah, of course.” He steps out of the way, and lowers his voice as Norway steps closer. “England is in the kitchen. He’s . . . I don’t know what’s happening.” His voice actually comes out uneven. He clears his throat. “He’s just acting really creepy and it’s freaking me out and I don’t know—”

Norway’s solemn face softens, and he gently touches America’s shoulder. “Calm.”

America looks at the pale blond of Norway’s hair, the pale blue of his eyes, the white of his skin, the muted colors of his clothes. Nothing about him is loud, exciting, overwhelming. Just simple in a way that America always thought of as boring, but now he realizes it’s—calming, even cozy. _I can see the appeal, Denmark._ Not as a full-time gig, but definitely good for avoiding mental breakdowns.

America leads Norway into the kitchen. England is standing at the stove, frying the omelette. America might be imagining things, but the smell . . . _oh dear God, he didn’t put that blood cheese in there. He did! I’m gonna be sick_ —He stifles his gag reflex and tries to sound friendly, but it comes out weak and vaguely desperate. “Hey, look who came to see you, England.”

England glances over his shoulder. Do his eyes normally look that big? And are his pupils supposed to be that small? “Oh,” he says slowly, “we aren’t expecting guests.”

Norway’s expression is, as usual, unchanged. “I won’t be here long. I just came to ask you a few questions. America tells me this situation began with a mistaken spell. What spell were you trying to do?”

England stares at him, face completely blank.

The silence drags.

England doesn’t blink.

America feels the hair stand up on the nape of his neck.

Norway finally gives up. “Alright, then. And where are your familiars?”

It takes America a moment to recall what familiars are. _England’s magical friends._ Apparently there’s some sort of hierarchy with them, each one aiding with a different type of spell or alchemy or what have you. England explained it to him once—he could ramble about them for hours if you let him—but America drowned it out. Unless England mentions them, America forgets about the invisible creatures. He hadn’t considered what they might think of this bizarre England.

England turns back around. “I don’t know. Sit down, America, your brunch is ready.” He plates the omelette and sets it down on the table. Those dark spots in it. America might actually retch if he keeps looking at it.

Norway lifts his chin slighty. “Thank you, England. I just need a brief word with America. Please excuse us.”

Out into the hall. America is relieved to escape. Norway’s expression has darkened. “ _That_ is not England. Not this reality’s England. How did you ever think it was?”

America is torn between being glad that something really is wrong and he’s not crazy, and being scared because—something really is wrong. “I—I—he’s really cute, or he was, and he was freakin’ manipulative, a-and . . .”

_I fucked him. Oh my God. I cheated on England._

_WITH ENGLAND._

America’s hands fly up to grab at his hair. “I’m gonna lose it. I’m gonna lose it—!”

“Calm. Down.” Norway glances back at the kitchen doorway, wary. “We need to get him back to his own reality, quickly. His aura is—” He looks back to America again. “You said he wasn’t this bad when he first arrived?”

“No, he was really nice, he’s just been getting weirder and weirder.”

“Mm.” Norway shakes his head. “His aura is a mess. His energy is completely out of balance, because he doesn’t belong here. He’s incompatible with our reality, just like our England is incompatible with the other reality. It’s like when a human gets an organ transplant. If it doesn’t fit properly, the body rejects it, tries to shut it down. Which is why this England’s mental state is falling apart so rapidly.” Now worry brightens his eyes. “The same could be happening to the England we know. Or . . .”

“Don’t trail off after _or_ ,” America pleads. “That means something really bad.”

Norway gives a small nod. “Our England could be suffering mentally, or he could be deteriorating physically. It might not be the case, but if it is, yes. It is really bad.”

America’s heart sinks. He doesn’t recognize his voice, so quiet. “But we’re countries. We can’t die.”

Norway’s smile is more of a grimace. “Every rule has its exceptions. But this isn’t the time for that discussion. We might have a time limit, so we need to hurry. I’m going to the basement, to set up the ritual to send him back. I can’t be interrupted, or we really will have a magick mishap, so you will have to stall him.”

America’s eyes widen. “For how long?”

“A few minutes. Ten.” Norway slides his palm along the wall, frowning lightly. “Maybe fifteen. England hasn’t been here to keep the house balanced.”

America doesn’t bother asking what that means. _This is why I never asked him about magick before. It’s too freaking crazy for me._ “Okay. Stalling. I can do that. And you do magick stuff. Okay. Cool. Go team.”

Norway vanishes downstairs, murmuring something to himself (or probably to invisible things) in Norwegian. Or maybe some magick language. Pretty much the same thing, to America.

 _Stop stalling the stalling._ America tries to pump himself up, but he can’t, not with the image of his England suffering somewhere. _I’m supposed to keep Iggy safe. And I can’t._ He takes a deep breath. _We’ll get you back, England._

Into the kitchen he goes.

 

UNITED KINGDOM 

It doesn’t start right away.

England gets up and showers without trouble, but when he stoops to pull on his socks, he has to catch himself against the sink. Black spots swarm in front of his eyes. _Bloody hell._ Slowly, he straightens up and takes a few deep breaths. _Oxygen to the brain._ The lightheaded feeling lingers, but he decides to ignore it and finish getting dressed. _Probably just peckish._

Downstairs, in the living room, America and Canada are arguing about football—American football, presumably—while France listens and smokes. England opens his mouth to say good morning, but instead what comes out is a raspy cough.

The other nations all look over to him. America arches an eyebrow. “Y’alright?”

England nods, clearing his throat. “Yes, just—” He barely gets the words out. This time the cough doubles him over, loud like a shotgun, reminding him of consumption, sanatoriums, flashes of the dead and dying through his mind—then he’s back in this living room, and America’s hands are on his shoulders, holding him upright.

“What’s wrong with him?” Canada asks.

“I don’t know,” America snaps, but it’s only anger brought by fear. He gently lets England lower to his knees on the floor; England coughs, and coughs—something wet in his throat— _get it out_ —he coughs, he retches, and a small puddle of blood appears on the dusty wood floor. He sways on hands and knees, looking down at it. _Blood . . . why blood . . . what . . ._ His brain feels just as clogged as his throat. He lifts his head, disoriented.

America, Canada, and France stand over him, identical looks of concern on their faces.

“Think we’d better get to that ritual,” America says. He offers England a hand.

“Ye-es,” England says weakly, voice breaking. He takes America’s hand, but when he tries to stand, he nearly blacks out again. America’s other hand goes to his back, easily supporting his weight.

“Alright, I’ll be the legs.” America bends down to scoop England up, carrying him bridal style. “You be the brain.”

England looks up at him woozily, then turns his head to look at Canada and France.

They’re both nodding. “Tell us what to do,” Canada says.

England’s heart shudders in his chest, but he can’t tell if it’s because he’s touched by the devotion or because his body is shutting down. When he finally forces words out, they’re quiet, his voice thin, fragile. “Move . . . move the furniture. We need space.”

Canada immediately starts pushing the couch over to the wall, and France pushes impotently at the table until Canada comes back to assist him. England feels a cough rising in his chest, but when he tries to stifle it, it bursts out with more vigor. Blood drips down his chin, onto his shirt. He’s had a mouth full of blood many times before, but never like this. Never without reason. Never with fear chilling him. He hasn’t felt this way since he was just a little cluster of kingdoms with longboats nearing the coast.

_I want to go home._

America looks down at him with a troubled expression, then lifts his gaze. “France, go get a damp cloth, would ya? And Canada, get Austria on the phone.”

France goes to the kitchen, and Canada protests, “ _What?_ Why?”

England feels every muscle in America’s chest and arms go tense. “Because this guy is fuckin’ dying, that’s goddamn why. Call Austria and ask him how we set up the ritual, or you can keep wasting time, England can throw up his guts all over the floor, and someday you can explain to my alternate form why you let his England die right in front of your fuckin’ face.”

Canada takes out his cell phone, head ducked. “Jesus Christ, it was just a question.”

“It was a stupid fuckin’ question.” America gingerly shifts England in his arms. “Hey. Eyes open, dollface.”

England blearily sees his red eyes, then France’s pale blue ones. France gently wipes the blood from around England’s mouth, murmuring something in French. England’s mind is far too muddled to translate, but the words—from someone like this France—are a comfort just for being heard. _Upstairs,_ he tries to say. _The things are upstairs._

France leans closer, head turned slightly as if to hear better. “What did you say?”

“Upstairs,” England croaks. Through more coughing, he says, “The—ritual—things—” Blood rises in his throat, and winds up on America’s shirt. Tears gather in his eyes; the feeling of uselessness is worse than the pain. “Oh—fuck—”

“Don’t worry about it,” America says immediately. “You wanna—thanks, France.” Because France is already on his way up the stairs, to fetch the bag Austria gave England. “Progress, Canada?”

Canada covers the phone with his hand. “I can hear them arguing about whether or not he should talk to me.” He brings it close to his mouth and yells, “I wouldn’t be asking you fuckers if it wasn’t life or death! You wanna be responsible for that, that’s on you!”

They stand in silence, waiting.

“Gimme the phone,” America says.

Just then, Canada holds up his other hand. He listens, then says, “I _know_ we’re countries, but he’s coughing up blood, it looks pretty life-or-death to me.” More listening. “Oh, for _Chrissake_ . . .” He glares at the wall. “Fine. I apologize for whatever rumors you think I’ve been spreading—”

“Don’t be a fuckin’ smartass!” America snarls. “Not right now!”

The mix of growl-and-sigh that comes from Canada is precisely the same sound a bear would make if woken up a week into hibernation. “ _FINE._ I’m sorry for the rumors. I’m sorry for the war and whatever else. Just tell us what to do, Austria.” He looks over at England, face so pale he does look like a doll now, a porcelain doll. “. . . Please.”

France comes back down with the supplies, and Canada—with the help of the Austrian in his ear—takes charge. “We need to make a pentagram with a circle around it. With . . . is there chalk in there, France? We have to dip it in that blood before we draw with it. No, Austria, I don’t want to know where you got the blood from. America, gimme your lighter, we need a candle at each point.”

While they hastily piece together the ritual and Canada stumbles over the intonations of the spell, America sits on the arm of the sofa, England still in his arms. America gives him gentle nudges periodically. “Stay with us, doll. You wanna go home again, don’t ya? You wanna see your America again, right?”

_America . . ._

“Right. I bet he’ll be some glad you made it back safe.” America looks up when Canada and France both swear, and swallows a _holy shit_ of his own. There’s a—well, it looks just like a hole torn in midair, edged with rippling purple light, floating just above the floor in the center of the pentagram. Through the rift, America can see some dark place lit only by candles, some guy with light blue eyes. He’s beckoning them.

“Damn,” America remarks. “Look at that, dollface, they’re expectin’ ya . . . Hey. Doll. _England._ ”

Raising his voice, shaking the limp nation in his arms, none of it does anything to change the fact that England is no longer breathing.

Into the rift they go.

_Quickly._


	8. United

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this imperfect? Yes. Is this sentimental? Yes. Is this me incarnate? That is entirely possible. (Also, do I get nostalgia points for having England say "we'll meet again" or no? :P) Thanks to all y'all for your lovely comments, I really didn't expect this to get as much attention as it did. Danke! :D

America only gets two steps into the kitchen before he stops in his tracks. England is standing beside the table, next to the seat where America should be sitting, where the tainted omelette has gone cold. A knife glints in England’s hand. His eyes stare, unblinking and impossibly large.

 _Not England,_ America reminds himself warily. _Not my England. This is a stranger. A batshit crazy stranger._

“Sorry about that,” America says, at once hesitant and trying to sound cheerful. “Norway is—”

“Nevermind Norway.” Other-England talks right over him, in a soft but strained way that makes goosebumps rise along America’s arms. He wants to look away from the smaller nation’s chilling gaze, but he can’t. “It’s time for you to eat your breakfast. You can’t stay big and strong if you don’t eat.”

Just a flash, just for a second, but America remembers sitting at England’s table, swinging his little legs under the table, waiting for his father to finish cooking supper. _Eat your vegetables, America. They’ll make you strong._

America almost tears up.

_I’m the hero. I’m the hero._

He clears his throat, and his voice comes out nice and firm, confident. “No, I’m not really hungry. No thanks.”

Other-England’s right eye twitches. “Eat. America.”

The age-old defiance flares in America. If England didn’t set that fire all those years ago, he certainly stoked it. America glares. His England is in danger somewhere. This wacko has been literally screwing with him. The time for niceness is over. “No. I said no. I don’t want it. Look at it. That’s disgusting.”

Other-England’s face clears, and for the briefest moment, his look of sadness makes America feel sorry for him.

Then Other-England lunges at him.

America jumps backward, dodging away from that knife, but he can’t grab for the other country because he just keeps coming, slashing again and again. America backs up until he hits the wall, and he has no choice but to risk snatching at Other-England’s arm. The blade glances off his skin, and America secures a hold on that pudgy wrist. He has so much more strength than this little slice of an island. He could snap this arm in half. But Norway’s words echo— _his mental state is falling apart._ He doesn’t know what he’s doing, so it isn’t fair to punish him for it. But Jesus Christ! America can barely hold him, Other-England is so goddamn crazy. Biting and hitting and kicking, striving to inflict pain wherever possible, snapping like a rabid animal.

Finally America wrenches the knife from his stubby fingers and throws Other-England off of him with a powerful shove. The smaller nation crashes into the table and chairs, then hops up and dashes out of the kitchen.

America gets his breath back, checking the damages. A few cuts on his arms, a bite mark, a small rip in his shirt. Those things will be healed within minutes, minus the shirt. Leaving the knife in the kitchen, America walks slowly out of the kitchen, brought back to England’s lessons about war. _Don’t trust the enemy for even a second. When you can’t see them, they’re infinitely more dangerous._ America glances toward the basement door. Norway would call out if Other-England had gone down there, surely. He looks down the hallway. No movement.

Cautiously, America makes his way down the hall. He checks behind the couch, behind the rocking chair. Nothing. He checks the bathroom. Nothing. He checks the hall closet. Nothing. He checks the bedroom.

Other-England, having climbed up onto a dresser, jumps onto America’s back and clings to him, holding a smaller knife (which he had hidden in his pocket) to the younger nation’s throat.

America has gone through the pain of physical death before—if their bodies take more damage than they can heal, they will technically die—and though it typically only takes a few minutes for them to come back to life, the dying still hurts like hell. And he can’t leave Norway unprotected for those unresponsive minutes. Those precious minutes could mean life or death for his England. _Iggy. Please be okay._

Everything in him screams to fight, but America doesn’t. He goes still with this freckled demon on his back, and though he knows what comes from negotiating with terrorists, he asks, “What do you want? Why are you doing this?”

A pause.

Softly, sweetly, Other-England says into his ear, “You’re so much different than _my_ America. You’re like a bright little baby. So cute! So much health and happiness! If I can kill you, my America can come here and he’ll love it so much, I know he will. Then I can kill France and Canada too, and _my_ France and Canada can come! They can have all the brightness and happiness here! They’ll be so grateful, and we’ll have a nice family again!”

 _Yep,_ America thinks, _you’re totally out to lunch._ America also thinks some extremely colorful things at the thought of anyone hurting Canada, but before he can push away that fury and think of something to say that will hopefully get that knife off his throat, a voice behind them says, “What the hell’s going on in here?”

America turns around awkwardly with Other-England still clinging to him, and they both see Denmark standing in the doorway with a tray of tea and coffee in his hand. Without warning, Other-England drops to the floor, shrieking, “DENMARK!” After looking around in panic, the freckled nation drops his knife and scrambles under the bed.

Denmark stares at the bed, then America, bewildered. “Uh . . .”

Thinking fast, America orders, “Get out from under there right now, England, or Denmark will drag you out and—and cut your head off with his battleaxe.”

Now Denmark really looks confused, but America mouths _go with it._ Denmark inclines his head slowly, then glances down at Other-England, who has crawled out to tremble like a little pink chihuahua at the Nordic nation’s feet. America takes the tray of drinks from Denmark and says, “He’s going to escort you down to the basement. Norway is waiting.”

Denmark perks up at the mention of Norway. Because he’s fond of America—they both have the same loud sense of humor, among other things—and because he can tell desperate measures called for, Denmark summons the ice-and-stone voice of the Viking days and growls, “Get walking, Danelagen.”

The name hits Other-England like a physical blow. Whimpering, he hugs his arms around himself and walks out of the bedroom with his head down. Denmark glances at America questioningly, and America just nods. _Onward and downward._

In the basement, America is faced with three disturbing sights: one, the great big floating slice of magical shit in the middle of the room. Two, a man with his face, his hair, his whole body but harder and darker. And three, in the arms of said hard and dark man, his England. White as a ghost, motionless. Lifeless.

“England?” America’s voice is barely audible, a broken whisper.

Norway and Other-America look over at him, then Norway is grabbing Other-England by the sleeve. “Go,” he says firmly. “Go through the rift, now.”

“Now,” Denmark repeats in a rumbling voice, just for good measure.

Other-England scurries through the rift. It’s like going through a window; America can still see him in there, standing with two other countries. _Is that France?_ He can’t focus on that. _England._  Norway is directing Other-America to lie him down on the floor, beneath the rift. He looks so small, but so beautiful, pale skin tinted purple and gold by the rift and the flickering candlelight.

“His heart isn’t beating,” Norway says, one hand on England’s neck and the other hovering over his chest. “His energy is fading . . .” He shakes his head, frustrated with his own hesitation. “America—”

Both Americas look at him, terrified blue eyes and concerned red ones.

Norway looks at the darker nation. “Do you know CPR?”

“Yeah.”

“Then start compressions.” Norway looks to the other America. “You need to call his spirit back to him. It has to be you. He has the best chance of hearing you. Don’t say it out loud. Say it inside.” He takes America’s hands and places them palm-up on either side of England’s head. His gaze glitters from the tiny flames. “Call to him. Let your spirit speak to his. Tell him the truth.”

Spirit? Truth? America can barely think straight, let alone think at a spirit. England is dying and all of this is insane, but—England needs him. So, while his dark reflection pumps blood through England’s body, America closes his eyes and thinks, _England. Please hear me. I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done to you. We’ve both made mistakes, but if you come back, we can forget about that. No, not forget—forgive. Please, please come back. I love you. I love your passion and your intelligence and your devotion and your black humor and your eyes and your heart. Please come back, Iggy. Please. I need you._ He leans down to kiss England’s forehead. _I love you._

“. . . mmm . . . ’merica?”

America lifts his head, eyes wide. Other-America sits up, too, staring. England opens bleary eyes, looking up at America, then at his darker form. “Oh,” he says, voice thin, a little raspy. “Seeing double.”

Without hesitation, America hauls England into his arms and holds him so tight England makes a soft sound of discomfort. America loosens his grip a little and mumbles, “Sorry,” into England’s hair. He smells like cigarettes and weed and a bit like black magic, but underneath all that he still smells familiar, like the sea and like home. “I thought I was gonna lose you,” he says, not caring about sounding brave or being the stronger one. “I was so scared.”

England reaches up to touch his cheek, smiling weakly. “I’m hard to get rid of.” He cups America’s face and gently pulls his head down for a kiss, and it’s the most chaste kiss they’ve ever shared. No domination, no power struggle. No lust, no wanting, not even needing. Just love.

But, despite how wonderful the kiss is, America moves back a bit, guilt rushing in. “There’s something we need to talk about—”

“There are a lot of things we need to talk about,” England agrees, with more strength now. “But not right now. All I want you to know right now is that we’re starting fresh.”

“Fresh?” America’s voice ducks low, almost shy to mention the R word. “You mean . . . no revolution?”

England smiles, doesn’t even wince. “No revolution.”

A grin starts to spread over America’s lips. “Can I call you babe?”

England glances briefly at Other-America, watching in amusement, then replies, “Yes, I suppose.”

“What about sweetheart?”

“Maybe once in a while—”

“Shnookums?”

“Don’t push it.”

America helps England get to his feet, and the island nation smiles at Norway and Denmark. “Thank you for the help. I owe you.”

Norway shakes his head, a faint smile on his mouth. “You would have done it for me.”

There was a time when that would have been a dubious statement, but now England just nods to him gratefully before turning to Other-America.

The dark nation stands beside America, poking at his stomach. “Little soft in the middle, huh, porkchop?” He looks down at England, smirking while America echoes _porkchop?_ and Denmark laughs. “So, guess this is goodbye.”

England puts his hands into his pockets, mirroring the younger country. “Perhaps we’ll meet again someday.”

Other-America’s smirk warms into a smile. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

“I’ll make cupcakes!”

They all turn to look into the rift, where Other-England is grinning, bubbly and cheerful as ever. Under the disapproving gazes of the nations in the basement, however, he wilts slightly and says, chin ducked and genuine tears gathering in his eyes, “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be bad. Please don’t be angry with me. Please!”

Other-America steps through the rift and puts an arm around him. “Don’t worry, love muffin. Nobody’s angry at ya.” Immediately, the freckled nation brightens again, looking up at Other-America with utter, uncomplicated adoration glowing in his big blue eyes. They kiss, just a peck, and Other-England is practically wriggling with happiness. Other-America glances at someone out of view, then says, “Austria’s gettin’ pissy on the phone, so.” He salutes them all with two fingers. “See ya round, dollface.”

The rift closes with a burst of purple sparks.

“ _Dollface_ ,” America says.

“What?” England arches an eyebrow teasingly. “I thought you liked pet names.”

America shakes his head. “I’m not sure if I like dollface.”

“Hmm.” England leans up to whisper in his ear. “How do you feel about . . .”

America’s eyes widen as he listens to the gloriously filthy things England proposes under his breath, all of them things he wants America to do to _him_ , not the other way around. America slowly shifts his gaze to Denmark and Norway, who are watching with knowing expressions.

“Uh,” America says, “hate to be rude, but—”

Norway holds up a hand, and Denmark laughs. “We’ll leave you to your reunion. Have fun.”

England hooks a leg round America’s hips, twining around him. He leans backward so America has to catch him, lifting him up. England smiles against America’s lips. “We will.”

“Mmm—who are you,” America mumbles into their kiss, “and what have you done with Iggy?”

“Not funny,” England says, closing his eyes as America trails kisses down his throat. “Not even close.”

 

ONE YEAR LATER 

“Ooh, that one?”

“ _Non_ , too much leg.”

“How can you have too much leg?”

“Maybe she is Danish.”

Spain and France laugh, turning away from the woman they’d been watching walk to the bar and shifting their attention to the man sitting opposite in their booth. “What do you think?”

Prussia’s not looking at any women. “Not my type.” His gaze is on the door, and a smile curls his lips when it opens. “Over here, Canada. Come light up our lives.”

The young nation comes over shyly, sitting down with great care not to brush Prussia’s side by accident, only to have his knee greeted warmly by Prussia’s hand beneath the table. Canada sneaks him a smile, trying not to blush. Prussia smiles back, then glances at France, who is watching with an unamused eyebrow raised. Unbothered, Prussia asks, “Where’s Little _Bruder_?”

“Um.” Canada checks his phone quickly. “Let me see. Sorry I’m on my phone at the table . . .”

Spain rolls his eyes and France smiles, both fond of Canada and his pathological apologizing. And, definitely fond as well, Prussia gives his knee a gentle squeeze.

“He said he’d be here ten minutes ago,” Canada says. “So he should be here by now.” He glances around the booth, eyes bright with worry. “Do you think England . . .”

They all exchange uncertain glances, because none of them would be shocked if England went back to his old ways of annual angst. When you hold a grudge for so long, is it really possible to let it go?

“Hey, guys!” America strides through the door, all grins and summer sunsets. “Sorry I’m late, I got stuck in traffic on the way to the airport.”

England walks in behind him, complaining, “Bloody Americans. And they say British people can’t drive.” But his eyes are light, and he actually smiles when he sees the nations at the table. “What’s this, you lot haven’t made room for us?” Though no one notices, his fingertips rest lightly and briefly on Canada’s shoulder, excluding him from the remark even though it’s teasing.

Spain charms some chairs away from another table, and America grins ear to ear while they all sing _Happy Birthday_ to him. England even sings, something he hasn’t done since America was tiny. America can barely contain his happiness, and, though he hides it much better, England feels the same way. He can’t even remember the last time he allowed himself to be happy with these nations, the nations closest to his heart. Once enemies, sure, but that is the past. Forgiven, not forgotten. _People can change. Countries, too._ England smiles a little, and when no one points it out and the world doesn’t end, he smiles wider. Never again will he waste time thinking he isn’t worth the simple joy of belonging.

They sit together, talking and laughing and buying food every now and again just so they don’t get kicked out, and hours have passed by the time anyone checks his watch. “Oh crap, we’re gonna miss the fireworks!” America says. “They’re, like, right now!”

England leans closer, a hand over America’s heart. “I’ll give you fireworks.” He grasps America’s shirt to pull him into a kiss, tilting his head to deepen it, at once giving and taking, strong where America is weak and weak where America is strong.

Prussia and Spain wolf-whistle, then burst out laughing when England flips them off without even pausing in the kiss. France and Canada exchange a knowing, relieved smile. At last, their family—unconventional as it may be—is no longer in jagged pieces. They, for better or for worse, are together.

And, somewhere at once far and near, a red-eyed America and a freckled England lie in each others’ arms on the bed of a pickup truck, gazing up at their alternate sky, watching bright sparks of the past light the way to the future.

 

_The End._


End file.
